Bonjour mes amis
I have arrived in France for a six-week stay with my family. We’re living in a small village called Olonzac in the south of France. Make no mistake, this is the heart of wine county. The vineyards look bleak and dreary at this time of year (mid-January) but the grapes from previous growing seasons, now bottled and selling for just a few euros in the local shops, taste wonderful and serve as a reminder that the exquisite light and ocre-coloured soil are magic, indeed.
Making art?
Not yet, not yet. I’m soaking in scenery and letting some of the french language roll through the space where most often my ‘english language voice’ tracks the muse and takes notes on what I’m experiencing.
Sounds. I am beginning to record them. We live in an old stone building in the village where the narrow alleys twist and turn to create an ancient labyrinthe. Stone walls, many in beautiful disrepair, lead deeper and deeper into this thousand year-old village.
From my shuttered window on the 2nd floor, I have begun to record the bells of the local church and the sounds of voices and footsteps that echo in the alley below. There is also a strange disembodied voice that emanates through loudspeakers situated throughout the village informing invisible residents of the local goings-on. (Anyone seen ‘The Triplets de Belleville”???) These announcements are usually followed by a quick hit of musique (a crooning chanteur).
These sounds are beginning to find their way into ambient soundscapes. Good things to follow, the Muse willing …