You Had to Be There!

So many times I find myself without my camera at an opportune moment for taking an unforgettable photo. Of course, every day in Toulon presents itself as the perfect inspiration for a Walker Evans wannabe. (This afternoon, I counted three passed-out drunks on one street corner – that’s a muckraker’s mother lode!) I’ve also been dying to snap a few shots of all the middle-aged women with Bozo the Clown hair-dos; yep, hair dyed bright red and sculpted into a nicely rounded poof, really brings out the jowls. But, today was really the crème de la crème!

I show up for my class of post-Bac students, they’re basically in a junior college type program to become profession business people, and they keep going on and on about one student who is late. Generally, the students are always late, but that’s usually because they’re loitering outside the school gates smoking cigarettes. This time, however, the buzz in the classroom was that one of the students was supposed to appear dressed as an Indian. Now, what that had to do with his tardiness, I couldn’t tell. Ten minutes later, though, the Chieftain arrived! To say that he was dressed as an Indian (which I now fully understood to mean Native American, and not Indian of the Origin of the Asian Subcontinent), is to drastically understate his case. The 22-year-old was dressed in nothing but a headdress, loincloth, and slippers, and at his waist he had a plastic toy hatchet and bow and arrow. I had to hand it to him, I did not see that coming! (Nor, did I expect him to have had quite so many tattoos; and, if I had known that he had them, I certainly did not expect to be in a position to see them.) And then, there we all were, one English teacher, one American, a handful of French youths dressed for what one could only guess would be a funeral from all the black they always wear, and one errant member of the Village People. Just when I thought the situation couldn’t become more ridiculous, they all turned to me as if I fully understood what the Indian thing was all about because I am from North America. Of course, the only thoughts running through my head was how incredibly un-PC this all was and how this would never ever happen in an American school and how it is most certainly inappropriate to even refer to someone as an Indian when they are in fact Native Americans and it is more inappropriate still to dress like one and parade around as such; that, mixed with uncontrollable blushing because here was a half-naked man in my classroom, and prudish American that I am, I am unaccustomed to such vulgarity. (Actually, I was starting to wonder how strippers collect tips. I mean, the smallest paper currency is 5 euros, and that’s like $6.50. Do European strippers wear little coin purses on their g-strings? Or, do they actually make more money? The cost of living is certainly greater here…) At any rate, I feigned ignorance, which was easy to do, because I really had no idea what was going on. When I inquired as to why this individual was dressed as an “Indian”, the only response I got was that it was for the North American Carnival, which, unless I’ve been kept in the dark about this all these years, and that every year at this time all of North America has been throwing a big party behind my back, I seriously doubt the existence of said carnival. But, man, you really had to be there!

Show Me Your Boutis!

Ok, I will! Due to my ineptitude as a photographer, the above photo does not do justice to my recently commenced chef d'oeuvre in boutis (pronounced "booty", if you couldn't guess by my off-color pun). So, here is another, more masterfully realized photo of someone else's (more masterfully realized) boutis:



And, whence my boutis? Mieko and I signed up for an all-day boutis workshop in the small village of Calvisson, maybe 20 km or so from Nimes. I discovered the town, its Maison de Boutis (translation: boutis house), and its workshops while searching on the internet for the source of the provencal placemats my Mom and I had been eyeing while shopping for souvenirs in Nice. My interest in these simple quilted placemats sent me on a wild google chase through the ins and outs of French regional handicrafts. I discovered that most of what goes by the name of boutis is in fact "pique de Marseille," a simplified version of boutis that more closely resembles what we in America call quilting. Boutis is a much more elaborate and fascinating craft. It's made by sandwiching two pieces of white cotton fabric together, then embroidering a design over top so that small pockets are created in the layers of fabric. These pockets are then filled with cotton yarn by carefully attaching the yarn to a piece of thread and a needle and gently tugging the yarn through the underside of the design. The result is a quilt design with incredibly high relief in the areas filled-in with cotton, and a lovely tranparency in the spaces left empty. Traditionally, boutis was reserved for only the most precious garments or linens, like wedding gowns or baptismal bonnets, whereas the more common "pique de Marseille" was used throughout the home, and is probably why people associate it more with Provence and confuse it with the highfalutin boutis. For me, this workshop was an opportunity to experience more of the local culture, and learn a skill I could bring home with me.

The boutis workshop in Calvisson turned out to be a great experience. Unfortunately, the weather was crappy, so I wasn't inspired to take more photos, but in retrospect it struck me as a textbook French medieval village. On Saturday it was utterly dead, except for the die-hard drinkers, smokers, and gamblers loitering in the town's two cafes, yet, the narrow, winding streets and houses fronted with ancient and cock-eyed looking doorways were indeed charming. The country-side butted right up against the sleepy village so that under certain archways you could spot idle tractors and grazing poultry. At the workshop, we were joined by a handful of mostly middle-aged and older women, most of whom traveled no farther than Nimes to get there (Mieko and I might not have had the nicest boutis, but we won the distance contest hands-down). The other women were curious about us young Americans, but if they were suspicious of our intentions, they never let on. In fact, they seemed eager to learn more about fibre arts in the United States. Most of their vocabulary on this subject appeared to have been imported from the States as they talked about doing "le patch" (patchwork quilting) or things they want to "quilter" (verb: to quilt). They also talked about buying quilting thread from America and Canada over the internet, since evidently selection in France is limited, and not surprisingly, prices are too high. Even the thread we used in our workshop was Coats & Clark, made in the good ol' USofA. (As protectionist as the French are, it strikes me as funny that they are making their traditional handicrafts with imported materials.) We spent the whole day working on our boutis projects, with one break for lunch when we all went to the charming local creperie. At the end of the day we were given free admission to the town's boutis museum where we got a taste for what our newly minted skill could yield. The most impressive pieces were the largest ones, whole gowns or bedspreads covered in boutis. It boggled the mind imagining how long it must have taken to complete these when after 7 hours I had only completed one measly flower less than the size of my palm. The museum also displayed several exquisite examples of pique de Marseille using the traditional provencal cotton prints as well as others in silk.

So, good news: I did learn a new skill. Bad news: Mom, those placemats aren't going to be ready any time soon!