Just thought I would share some of the images from Patchwork & Ornament: A Woman’s Journey of Life, Love, and Art by Jeanette Feldman. P&O is filled with numerous full-color photographs of art and travel.
nadine feldman
Thoughts on Self-Publishing
Back from vacation, I’m trying to figure out where I left off with my various projects. Exodus is ready for fresh eyes, as is Blood and Loam. There’s also the updated version of When a Grandchild Dies. I also explored a few new ideas while I was gone, and one of those is ready for some good ol’ uncensored creative writing.
Most exciting, though, is that Patchwork and Ornament, Jeanette Feldman’s memoir, is on its way. As with When a Grandchild Dies, I am both excited and nervous. Part of me says, “What was I thinking?” Initially, P&O was meant purely for family, as a way to preserve my mother-in-law’s writings and art in book form for future generations. Still, I couldn’t let go of the nagging thought that others outside the family might find it interesting as well. When I handed the manuscript over to others, expecting a quick, cursory “that’s nice,” I found that readers didn’t want to put it down. Still, as the books make their way from Canada to Houston, I know that the real work has just begun.
As I go forth to market this book, I am aware of strikes against it. We all know that self-published works tend to be dismissed as being of poor quality, especially now when anyone and everyone can put a book out there.
Here’s the thing, though. As part of my research into this market, I read some of those self-published works. One in particular grabbed my attention. The author didn’t bother to get the book edited, and it was filled with typos and other errors. It had a plain cover, just a single color with an uninteresting title. Yet when I read it, I found it a compelling read, and I let go of my editorial eye as the story swept me away.
Maybe I part company with some of my writer friends, but I believe that the one prerequisite for putting a book out is to believe in it. I learned that from When a Grandchild Dies. Bookstores didn’t want me to come in to hold signings because “it might depress our customers.” Bereavement organizations aimed primarily at parents didn’t want me speaking, because the parent/grandparent relationship can be rocky. Even at a conference for bereavement professionals, one therapist told me, “I saw the subject of your book and almost didn’t come over to talk to you because I’m a grandparent, and I can’t imagine anything more devastating.”
In other words, getting the word out to my audience, the bereaved grandparents, wasn’t easy. I had to work hard and persist to find speaking opportunities and ways to find the people who needed the book. Yet I did so, and WGD has done well.
WGD is a self-published book. Ten years later, as I work on updating it, I know I’m a much better writer than I was then. Although I’m still pleased with the book overall, some areas need substantial improvement. Yet I have received enough letters from people who read the book to know that my efforts are appreciated. Had I waited for a traditional publisher, I might still be waiting yet today, and those grandparents and other family members who benefited from WGD would not have received the help they needed.
I agree that writers should take care that their book is of high quality by utilizing editors, cover designers, etc. We should try to elevate our work to its highest and best potential. However, we should not hold back our ideas because they might not sell, or maybe they’re not “good enough” somehow. One never really knows what’s going to sell anyway! Also, although I am pleased with WGD’s sales, that has never been my measure of success with the book. The lessons I learned, the growth I achieved, and the knowledge that I helped people in the process is what matters most to me.
Patchwork and Ornament is a different kind of book. It doesn’t have the specific niche that WGD has. That will make it both easier and harder to market. That said, I have done my best with P&O to make it beautiful, and I will do my best to find its audience. That’s the best that any of us can do–and it is what we must do, whether or not there are naysayers.
Food, Roman Ruins, Food, Van Gogh, Food…
After our decision to end our misadventure in Avignon, we were rewarded with the more charming Arles. On the way there we visited Orange, where a Roman theatre exists with the most intact stage of any left in existence. The theatre once had a tiny village built inside of it that has since been removed! In this part of the world, the ruins are used wherever possible. This stage has been the home for theatre, opera, and rock concerts.
Arles, our new home for three nights, proved to be a lovely choice for us, although it rained so hard when we arrived that we failed to notice the Roman ampitheater right next to the hotel! The next day, when the sun came out and we explored the town, it was QUITE obvious. This ampitheater is used as well, this one for bullfights. I never pictured the French as being bullfighters, but apparently it’s popular in these parts, anyway (yuck).
Eating in Arles has also been a pleasurable experience. We found several little restaurants with a traditional French feel…lovely tablecloths and china, art that often pays tribute to the local bullfighters, and elegant, imaginative meals. We have been brave enough to try the local rose wines, which are far different and better than I expected.
Arles, I realized, has a familiar feel because Van Gogh painted so many scenes from the town. In fact, one can stand at any street corner and imagine replacing the actual buildings and furnishings with his unique brushstrokes.
When Van Gogh lived in Arles, the locals weren’t excited about him. It’s understandable, given his erratic behavior, but the net result is that not a single Van Gogh painting exists in Arles. Undeterred, the locals came up with a unique and exciting idea: to create a tribute museum, where artists would create their own interpretations of Van Gogh paintings, or portraits of the artist. It sounds like an odd idea, but it works really well. I was moved by the art in the museum, all of which was high quality and honored Van Gogh in a special way.
The next day, we drove to Nimes, Uzes, and Pont de Gard for still more Roman ruins. We saw the arena, main temple, and Temple of Diana at Nimes, and we enjoyed a pleasant lunch outside on the main square. Quick factoid: the fabric denim originated in Nimes (de Nimes, or from Nimes).
Anyway, the high point of the afternoon was the Pont de Gard, a huge aqueduct in excellent condition. We finished our day by returning to Arles and yet another awesome meal. By the way, we were told we would be sick of olives by the end of this trip, but last night was the first night we were served any! We have both now had dishes made with olive oil, and the flavor is much richer when tasting fresh, locally made oil. Yum!
We are in our last week of the trip now, high on a hilltop in a town called Menerbes. The view from our apartment is fabulous, and since it’s another nice day we’ve opened up the windows to let the fresh air in. Although we plan a longer trip tomorrow to Cassis on the Mediterranean, we will spend most of our week tooling around the little hilltowns here in the Luberon. There are some wineries we want to visit, and we’re going to seek out those out-of-the-way Michelin-starred restaurants to see what all the fuss is about.
We made another swing by Rousillon to get more pics of the ochre in the hills. I’ll get these up on Facebook as soon as I can. Hopefully this time I captured the rich colors better.
Know When to Fold ‘Em
Yesterday we treated ourselves to two interesting towns in Provence: Les Baux and St. Remy. Les Baux is home to the ruins of a chateau, which we toured. Now, when I think of chateaux, I think of large, enclosed, glamorous places. I didn’t quite get the “ruins” part. Not that ruins bother me. Lord knows I’ve climbed and crawled around more than my share. It’s just that I thought our tour would be a warm, indoor experience. Wrong again. It turned out not to be overly cold, but we were greeted by an impressive wind. Provence, of course, is famous for its wind, but I guess I thought it hit only in the winter.
In spite of feeling blown around like a paper bag, we enjoyed the tour. The metal bauxite takes its name from this town, as the hills were once full of it. It’s amazing to me how, as we go from town to town, each not far apart from the other, the terrain looks so different. This rock I would call “pock marked,” gray with black. Looking out from the chateau, we got great views yet again, though it was too windy for me to feel comfortable taking photos.
Afterward we found the village of St. Remy, a warm and bustling place that thus far feels closest to what we have wanted in our Provence experience. We had a warm, hearty couscous stew with chicken, eggplant, and other veggies in a little restaurant where we were befriended by an American/British couple who now live in St. Remy full-time. They are in their mid-seventies and enjoy living in their little house in town–no Provence farmhouse for them, they like not having to get into their car! They gave us lots of food for thought for future stays and longer visits, should that turn out to be our goal. She said that a lot of the villages, though charming, are pretty dead with just one or two bistros and people who don’t speak to one another. St. Remy, on the other hand, has a lot going on, including a good-sized ex-pat population.
Van Gogh spent a year in St. Remy in the psychiatric hospital, which still exists today and which still offers art therapy as part of its treatment program. During this time, he painted more than 150 paintings (of an astounding 890 or so in 10 years). He would walk the various roads and fields of the area. We walked one of those roads, which was marked from time to time with information about his work and which paintings he might have done in each location or nearby. At the hospital, they had a nice exhibit of his biography, what his room would have looked like, and his treatment. Although he was a patient, they often allowed Vincent to leave the grounds in order to pursue his work. St. Remy was one of the few places that embraced and respected him during his lifetime–in Arles, they found him too strange. I guess when someone cuts off his ear, people get a bit nervous.
We made it back to the apartment for another workday for Henry, but the Internet was problematic yet again. It has power blips, and unfortunately, the router is in another apartment, so we can’t reset it ourselves. This morning, when it went down one more time, Henry decided it was time to go. I didn’t argue with him. I didn’t like the apartment much, and Avignon never did grow on me. I think they are trying too hard to be modern and hip, when what we want is a more traditional Provencal experience. Plus, the town is sort of dingy and run-down and sad. So, we checked out and headed for Arles, where we will spend the next three nights in a local hotel that seems quite charming.
We know that our style of travel involves a certain risk, and things don’t always work out. Last year in Jerusalem we had to make a switch–inconvenient and stressful, but we ended up in a fantastic place that we really enjoyed. We think we’re going to spend our last week in Lourmarin, which has some tourist trade but isn’t overrun, and is still said to maintain its charm. I’m not totally sure where we’ll end up, but we will be fine…just more stories for the grandkids!
Jesus and the Sex Shops–We’re in France!
A 24 X 30 portrait of Jesus stares at me from the kitchen wall between two windows, and outside an old church faces our apartment. In the bedroom, a nun looks over us. And around the corner, the whole block is lined with sex shops.
Yep, we’re in France!
France Feldman style, anyway, where we never quite know what unique surprises await us with the apartments we rent. Inside, we are peaceful and safe. The rooms are bright and cheerful, the bed is comfortable, and we are locked up in three different places.
Whenever we arrive at a new place, I have to adjust. It takes me about a day or so as I let go of the previous experience (or home, if early in the trip). When I realized that this apartment is so bare-bones that I needed to buy toilet paper, I had a moment of asking myself, “What have we done? How are we going to stay here for two weeks?”
Well, it’s simple. We buy toilet paper (except it’s not toilet paper, it’s paper towels, and poor Henry has to go back to the store when we hit emergency levels). Then we get some sleep. The next day everything looks easier and more fun, and I’m ready to jump in. We figure out the shower–“C” is for chaud (hot), not cold. Oops.
Anyway, we are in the oldest part of Avignon, a town that is somewhat like old Paris but drearier, somewhat like Siena, Italy, but more cheerful, and that seems confused about what it wants to be. Old or modern? Charming or rundown? Even our proprietess reflected this confusion. On the phone, as we came closer to town, she seemed brusque to the point that I wanted to find somewhere, anywhere else to stay. When we met in person, though, we were instant friends, and she conveyed warmth and caring as she told us where we could eat good food for reasonable prices. She even told us which booths in the marketplace were the best.
Sunday morning, with no food in the apartment, we walked to said marketplace, Les Halles, one of the more famous markets in Europe. It has a permanent structure instead of being in the open air, and it is open six days a week. After some initial overwhelm that was cured by a yummy pain au chocolat, we made our rounds. Each vendor seemed helpful, cheerful, and even playful, and our purchases were all rewarded by some little extra treat that got slipped into our bags. The bread guy, for example, would cut hunks of bread off of loaves up to 18” in diameter and reveled in showing the customers the bottoms of each loaf so they could see and choose the one they liked the most. His extra little gift to us was a slice of brioche, sweet and fresh.
We came back with cheese, bread, yogurt, eggs, and plenty of produce. Then we finished at the supermarket, where a few simple purchases gave the apartment all the comforts of home. It may sound odd to some, but market shopping is an important part of the Provencal experience, and our first encounter was a pleasant one.
In the afternoon we hit the road and drove to Gordes, a village built on a rocky hillside. We took a long walk through the winding streets of town and got some great views not only of the town itself, but the vineyards and olive groves below, and the mountains in the distance.
From Gordes we found a Gothic-era abbey that we visited briefly, and then the village of Bories, which consists of restored stone houses that were used from the pre-Christian era to the 18th century. Each dwelling sat directly next door to a sheep or goat pen. Not sure I would like that much!
Since we had time, we then drove on to Rousillon—a place we will definitely return to. We had time just to wander around a bit before everything closed, and there’s a lot to see. The hillsides and soil of Rousillon are famous for its ochre pigments, and great Impressionist painters came to Rousillon to get just the right colors. The walls and shutters of the village buildings are painted in a wide variety of cheerful yellows, oranges, purples, and greens in addition to light and dark ochres. There’s a whole self-guided “ochre tour” of the area that we plan to take when we go back.
As we made the return trip to Avignon, we took some winding roads (a GPS is a great invention) and, as it turns out, ended up somewhere near Peter Mayle’s first Provence house. We didn’t see it but Henry looked up the info later. Apparently after A Year in Provence hit it big, complete strangers would come over and jump in Mayle’s pool or otherwise disturb his peace, thus eventually forcing him out. He’s a bit vague these days about where he is, or even if he is in Provence full-time.
Today we took a walking tour of Avignon that led us into a Gothic church, to the old Jewish quarter, and finally to the Pope’s Palace. We finished with an elegant lunch at one of the hotels. All the food has been great so far, even when it isn’t specifically French (I had sushi last night). I will rest, write, and do yoga while Henry works, and we shall eat in at the apartment tonight. Visit me on Facebook for all the latest pics!
Firmly Perched on the Mountain
After four days in Leysin, we feel a peculiar effect: no desire to go down the mountain. Do we want to visit Lausanne? Gruyeres? No, not really. What is it about this sleepy mountain town that lures us, that seduces us, that has caused us to lose interest in anything else? I have no idea.
I think the yogis would say that the place has strong prana, or life force. There is a reason it became a healing place for TB patients early in the previous century. Even though I have had a cold, instinct tells me that getting outdoors is my best cure…and we have.
Today we took a long but gentle hike through rolling hills, forest-cushioned paths, and the occasional climb to pathways filled with hard ice. Our total walk time was about four hours, but it felt as effortless as an afternoon stroll. We didn’t take a lot of pictures. Most of the views we saw are views we have already recorded in some form. So it’s not like we are making new discoveries on our walks. They…just…feel…good.
Hiking paths in Switzerland are marked with yellow signs, and some intersections display an impressive number of options. On the right-hand side of each sign, the side with an arrow, a color-coded indicator tells us whether the hike is easy, moderate, difficult, or prepare to die, fool. On today’s adventures, our path was not so clearly marked, and we took several wrong turns. We shrugged our shoulders. So what? We found our way back, often without having to totally backtrack. In Leysin, meandering matters. There are no goals here, no accomplishments to be had, no place we have to be, other than to make sure we get to the restaurant while they are still serving lunch.
So we walk and we eat and we rest. We stay in the apartment in the evening, eating lightly after a big lunch. It also keeps our food bills down…restaurants here are profoundly expensive if you don’t like the fixed price option (which is a bit high, but more reasonable). Today’s fixed price options at our restaurant of choice included horse meat or baby pig, so we decided to order from the regular menu! We see horse troughs everywhere but no horses, seeing them only on the menus. We have eaten other meats we wouldn’t normally, such as veal and venison (both excellent, I might add), but neither of us is ready for horse. Funny how we’ll eat a cow without question but feel indignant about other animals. The cows around here are mighty cute, especially with their bells.
We have internet television, but channels are limited, and as I write this the internet is down, so we are even more isolated. I had tried, during my convalescence, to pull up a few American television shows, but most prohibit viewing outside of the U.S. The Daily Show is the only one I successfully watched.
So, here we are, isolated, away from civilization, cut off from our usual toys and distractions. Henry, who needs the internet to work, busied himself after our hike fixing the problem (which he did, obviously). For me, though, there was not much to do. I spent some time writing, letting new characters introduce themselves to me and whisper their stories in my ear…I read…I just stared out the window and watch the clouds drift by the mountains, sometimes at our eye level. Time to breathe. Time to dream. Time to invent.
The Type “A” part of me, which I honor as important, can take over every now and then and wreak havoc. Here in Leysin, with its fresh air and absolutely nothing to do, there is balance.