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Painting Canada - Bilingual Artist
Bilingual Artist
It was a slightly misty morning, with the sun just starting to break through. The tiny village of Cap Des Rosiers, just outside Forillon National Park began to sparkle and entice my painter’s eye. As I drove along the small town road, a small group of houses on a cliff by the sea caught my eye. I pulled the van into a small driveway and found a vantagepoint that would suit my purposes. I was just about to grab my gear and get started when the thought occurred to me; what if I was trespassing? I was very self-conscious about my lack of French, and I didn’t think I could handle myself very well against an irate French-Canadian property owner yelling at me, so I decided to try and get permission before painting.
I wandered down the road for a while, past a few brightly-colored fishing shacks and little seaside cottages. Not far along, I spotted two old fellows talking together on a small white porch. I considered my request and made my approach.
I don’t remember a lick of French. I took it in public school, and high school, but my real education came from the French side of the cereal box. Flocons de Mais. That’s Corn Flakes. So what do I do? I talk to the French like a Frenchman talking bad English. I guess that’s how they sound to me so I figure they’ve got to understand it, right? I walked straight up to those two old boys on the porch and gave it my best shot.
“ Bone-jewer? I can parg der?” I smiled, pointing along the road to my van perched along the seashore.
Both men looked at me blankly. One moved a hand-rolled cigarette to the other side of his straight mouth without touching it.
“ I am arteest, I wan to make painting der.” I continued to point at the van.
They continued to stare at me.
“ Arteest?……Painting?” I was beginning to doubt my ability to communicate with these two.
Suddenly one of them, the older one, began to speak loudly and quickly, pointing and gesturing wildly with his arms in the direction of the van. The other nodded occasionally in between puffs of his cigarette. Finally, I thought, they’re beginning to understand me.
“ So I can pain der?” I said, convinced of my success.
“NO!” the Frenchman shouted. “No! No!” He began to get louder and angrier, speaking once in a while to his straightmouthed friend, who smoked and nodded his encouragement. I was getting ready to give up and leave. The old man got even angrier at this. Finally his friend got up and walked towards an old bike leaning against the porch. He motioned for me to follow him. He got on the bike and started to ride down the road, cigarette still in his mouth, looking back often and waving for me to follow him. I ran alongside him all the way back to the van, where I stopped, but he didn’t. He continued to ride and smoke, his hands never leaving the handlebars, cigarette sticking straight out of his straight mouth, looking back often to see that I was behind him.
I didn’t know what to do, so I got in the van and followed him. I wasn’t sure how far he might go, so I followed – ever so slowly – past the fishing shacks and little colored cottages, down along the seashore road. After two kilometers he pulled his old bicycle into a driveway and stopped, waiting for me. I jumped out of the van, curious to see what great painting spot he had taken me to. He pointed to a little shack at the end of the drive. It wasn’t particularly attractive and certainly not anything worth painting, but I smiled and walked toward it anyway. The straight-mouthed man seemed satisfied and turned his bike back up the road.
“ Mare-see!” I yelled behind him, not sure what I was thanking him for. He waved, riding on and not looking back.
I walked up to the door of the house. There was a sign on it, shaped like a little artist’s palette. It was written in French, but I managed to decipher it.
It read, “ The artist will be back at two o’clock.”
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