In Languedoc, there are ON and OFF switches for rain. None of that dismal day-long drizzling that leaves you wrapped in a damp blanket, feeling miserable and mouldy. Here it’s a downpour of burst dam proportions, then the sun comes out again. The fierce clatter of rain-drops is often accompanied by the bass of thunder and a sky-filled light show. The heavens are performing a fireworks display and it’s not even bonfire night.
So there we were, Homer and I, walking along the poplar-lined pathways under a pale sky in Villeneuvette when the charcoal clouds rolled in and the sky opened its trap doors. In less than a minute we were soaked to the skin. Water ran off Homer’s silky black fur and pooled on either side. His tail was a running hose-pipe. I was standing, fully dressed, under a power shower. Then the booms and bangs began right overhead, and a dazzling diagram of silver lines ran down the sky. Fearing electrocution, we did a runner for the only building in sight which was the art gallery.
They could not have been more gracious. Viviane Zanca and her husband Michel were at a desk covered in leaflets and postcards when two creatures from the deep crashed through the doors and dripped rain and orange mud all over the polished floor. Desolee, I said. I’m so sorry. While I stripped off my anorak, Homer got free and ran all over the gallery, shaking and splattering water over walls and floor. I grabbed him and tied him to the door handle. Introductions were made. Viviane talked passionately about her aquarelles while her husband translated into perfect English. After our operatic entrance, I took some deep breaths and wandered round the gallery with Viviane at my side telling me about the landscapes, the nudes and the recurring clown.
I was particularly drawn to an aquarelle of a dancer. She’d finished performing and stood bowed and spent, her emotions draining away in the colours of rain and storms and flowers. I asked how much it was. It’s not for sale, Viviane replied. Disappointed, I saw the tiny red dot. I’m keeping it myself, Viviane continued. It’s my favourite too.
Funny how you can know somebody you’ve never met before. Viviane’s energy and mine were synchronised. We talked about writing and painting and our need to be creative, about being different, about experimenting with words and colour. We could have talked for hours with Michiel gently intervening to translate, but Homer was growing restless in his puddle by the door. We exchanged cards. We promised to meet again. Empty promises had been given before. The French are scrupulously charming and polite but I’ve been told you never get invited into their houses.
I went home, found two large towels, dried one dog and one wet dog-owner, and afterwards looked for a long time at the postcard of the painting of the dancer.
Two days later an email from Viviane invited me and my husband to lunch with a group of their friends. And so our friendship began. Viviane is gifted and unconventional. She has a furious wild energy. She is utterly open and honest. We start talking as I get out of the car and are still talking when I get in again.
A bientot, Viviane. I’m glad it rained.
To see more of VivianeZanca’s paintings go to: http://zanca.over-blog.com/