May Day marks many things around the world, we aren't exactly sure what it marks in France, we think it's something about labour struggles and having lunch, but we haven't really bothered to enquire too deeply.
For us it meant going to bed not much before it was time to get up, leaving us all day with the distinct feeling that we'd been travelling for weeks, wandering among the trash and treasure on the streets of la Ferte in a daze, and crepes from a stall that in our addled state looked so much as though it could have been the CWA tent at the Quilpie show, that we ordered in English.
We did have time to pop in to an exhibition in a small chateau in Orleans of course. (Note to Mike who has been running around gathering vital documents for us: Thanks heaps, and you really need to be here, the surf can wait!) Small chateaus are not normally where we can be found admittedly, and this one was smaller than most, with the work of two painters on show on its ground floor. In the background, music filtering through every corner from somewhere above, sight unseen.
Our French connections made enquiries and obtained permission for us to explore the vacant first floor, where we found the source of the Musak. Jean-Dominique the journalist who just a year ago had written some tremendous reviews of our own work, had installed himself, alone apart from his flute, in the empty upper level space, to play for the duration of the exhibition using the acoustics of the place to avoid the need for amplification.
We lingered for an age, sitting on the floor, feeling the afternoon mellow as our private concert continued broken between brackets by quiet chatter between musician and audience.
For us it meant going to bed not much before it was time to get up, leaving us all day with the distinct feeling that we'd been travelling for weeks, wandering among the trash and treasure on the streets of la Ferte in a daze, and crepes from a stall that in our addled state looked so much as though it could have been the CWA tent at the Quilpie show, that we ordered in English.
We did have time to pop in to an exhibition in a small chateau in Orleans of course. (Note to Mike who has been running around gathering vital documents for us: Thanks heaps, and you really need to be here, the surf can wait!) Small chateaus are not normally where we can be found admittedly, and this one was smaller than most, with the work of two painters on show on its ground floor. In the background, music filtering through every corner from somewhere above, sight unseen.
Our French connections made enquiries and obtained permission for us to explore the vacant first floor, where we found the source of the Musak. Jean-Dominique the journalist who just a year ago had written some tremendous reviews of our own work, had installed himself, alone apart from his flute, in the empty upper level space, to play for the duration of the exhibition using the acoustics of the place to avoid the need for amplification.
We lingered for an age, sitting on the floor, feeling the afternoon mellow as our private concert continued broken between brackets by quiet chatter between musician and audience.
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