The magic of Étretat will catch you
Les feuilles mortes are ramasent à la pelle. The souvenirs and the regrets also
He had met her at the Musée de la Orangerie. I was looking for a work by Derain in which a harlequin appeared . I needed a model for a masquerade ball. After taking some photographs of the painting, I wandered towards the Nymphéas room. At first glance, I couldn't make it out in the purple tide. She remained motionless. The fabric of her dress melted into Monet's water lilies . As I approached, her short hair marked a dark spot on the pond. Immersed in contemplation, she was not aware of my presence.
Detail of Monet's 'Nymphéas' room
Wait. When she came out, I followed her. Her steps were short, childish. She crossed the place Concorde and went up the rue Royale. Beneath the clouds, her dress had faded. She went into La Durée, she sat down and ordered a raspberry pie. Her slanted eyes fixed on the pinkish circle, lost in thought. . I drank my coffee while I watched the acid note of the meringue multiply in faint, reddish strokes on the fabric.
Everything in pink at La Durée
Attracted by the metamorphosis, I approached her and asked her if she recommended it to me. . She was withdrawn. I improvised. I said its color she reminded me of Monet's gardens. Actually, the work of the Impressionist did not particularly interest me. The trivialization of him had caused a rejection since my adolescence that I had not made an effort to overcome. But I thought about my masquerade. No one could beat Akiko's costume. The concept of tableau vivant acquired a new meaning in her dress. I sat down at a neighboring table and we talk about the painter's house in Giverny . I told him that in a few days I was going to a costume party near there, in Normandy. A friend had lent me his car.
After a few minutes, he broke his smile and looked me in the eye. "You don't have a partner for the party, am I wrong?" he asked. . I smiled. "And in a next date you are going to offer me to accompany you," she continued. I laughed and nodded. “There is no need to prolong the wait. I was looking for a way to get to Giverny without using a tour operator, but I do not know how to drive.”
Claude Monet's garden in Giverny, France
Les feuilles mortes are ramasent à la pelle. Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi.
We parked and headed to Monet's house. The building was exactly as the painter's works showed; perfect in its spaciousness, in the charm of its interior asymmetry. Despite the renovation the tiled kitchen and the yellow-walled dining room held an evocative echo. We went out into the garden. Akiko looked at the tourists disapprovingly. We avoided the central trail. There were some flowers. She stopped. “ He always painted it in the spring ", She said. Her gaze drifted away, unmoving.
Monet's self-portrait painted in 1886
Aware of her trance, I watched the garden spring up on the textile screen. Lily beds, red tulips, deep green and pale pinks emerged in fresh, spontaneous strokes . I felt the breath of revelation. I tend to attribute external imbalances to my own oscillations, but there was something of an epiphany in that floral tide. Akiko opened her eyes and smiled. "That's better," she said and, before the astonished gesture of the visitors, we walked the paths that had awakened in her dress.
Giverny and Monet's Water Lilies
We're going to Etretat . The road followed the meanders of the Seine. As we approached the coast, the forests gave way to cattle fields. Akiko hummed the dead feuilles . Her attitude was distant. I accepted her secrecy with the submission of a faithful before her priestess. As she drove, she awaited a new sight with the anxiety of a convert. In the impressionist religion, Monet's divinity manifested itself between the seams. "Don't you ever change your dress?" I asked..
“Do you change your skin?” he answered.
"From time to time. I like the masks.”
“I do not share that attitude. My black dresses are like my eyes or my hands. They are part of me.”
The cliffs of Etretat
Upon arriving at Etretat , we went up to the cliffs and left the car next to a hermitage. The sea was clear and cold. The beach extended towards the cliff that Monet painted with obsessive insistence. Akiko had begun to walk along the path that ran along the escarpment . The breeze stirred her dress. I grabbed my coat and ran after her. The Breton cows looked at us curiously from the wire fences. In the distance I looked for black, but when I focused my attention, the color fled. Suddenly, she turned. The way back looked towards the cliff. Akiko's eyes were fixed on the distance. . I walked beside her without looking up from her dress. In her silence came the shapes of the rocky arch at dawn, under the white light of summer, in a reddish sunset and between the waves of a stormy sea.
Suspended in its folds, I wondered if the projection would continue during the party.
Étretat seen through Monet's brushes