Pick any random person who has known me for a decent amount of time and ask: Do you think Surya is stressed? The answer would be YES. I don’t say this to boast, to claim that I am somehow winning a competition because I am constantly stressed. Rather, I say it because I’m self-aware of the fact that I am awful at managing my work-life balance. I’ve wholly subscribed to the hustle culture that makes the modern era function — working crazy overtime, working through lunch and dinner, taking calls and responding to messages at all times of the day, etc. I’m a devotee of the hustle, much to the chagrin of my friends and family. Even my own doctor has kindly asked me to “please do better, buddy.” Easier said than done.
When I applied to take an international journalism course abroad, I imagined I would simply transpose my lifestyle to France. The hustle would continue at all costs.
Quickly I realized that this was not the case in a city like Arles. People here take their personal time very, very, very seriously. Everything moves at a leisurely pace. At first, it was so alien to me. Back home, I am always ready to work, constantly caffeinated and on-edge. Once in Arles, it was as though I decelerated from 1,000 to 10 miles per hour in a matter of 24 hours.
It’s been more than two weeks since I’ve arrived in the beautiful city of Arles, and I’ve acquired a deep taste for the slow life. The life where I wake up at 8 a.m. and go for a walk, find a café that serves fresh croissants and strong coffee, and then sit outside watching the birds sing and fly overhead. It’s the life where, after working my required hours of work, I meander around the city watching others live the slow life, just absorbing my surroundings and watching people laugh and embrace each other in the night light. I finally feel like I have the time to do so. I haven’t felt this way in a long time.
A bird flies far above Arles during the late afternoon.
Being in Arles is a reminder that I have time. It’s so simple a realization that I need to repeat it to myself constantly, because I’m afraid to forget it again. Being realistic, it’s not all play. Obviously, I still need to push myself to accomplish what I wish to do, especially when I have to return to America and go back to my usual schedule. But if there’s a lesson to be learned from Arles, it’s that you have to hold on to your own time with your own two hands, or it will constantly slip away or be taken up.
When I return home, I believe it will be with a better sense of personal balance. I’ll take the effort to slow down and save some time for myself.
As I walked along the Rhône during my first week in Arles, I noticed an old couch beneath the south end of the Pont de Trinquetaille. Beside it sat the remains of a Heineken 12-pack. I had clearly stumbled upon a local drinking spot, so I took out my camera and made a photo of the uniquely placed furniture.
As I moved on from the couch, continuing down the side of the river, a man looked at me as he passed by. I thought nothing of this fellow pedestrian until I heard a loud splash from behind me. I turned to see the man walking away from the bridge and the couch floating in the Rhône.
With such an odd scene set before me, I jumped into action and began snapping pictures. Running up and down the many stairs leading to the water, I followed this cushioned raft until it began to slip beneath the surface of the Rhône.
As it sank, I began to think about what other random things could be sitting at the bottom of the massive river. I imagined layers of objects from throughout history making up the seabed, with modern-day garbage resting atop ancient relics. Turns out I wasn’t far off from reality.
The Arles-Rhône 3 is on display in the Musee departemental Arles antique.
When the Arles-Rhône 3 sank around 50 to 60 A.D., the transport ship was resigned to the depths of the Rhône River that cuts through the ancient city. It saw the light of day once again after a team from the Musée départemental Arles antique resurfaced the vessel as a part of a project to dredge up the countless relics lost to the river.
The ship is now on display in the center of a section showcasing the river’s treasures. It is surrounded by and filled with the amphoras, cut limestone and metal bricks that it once carried up and down the Rhône amongst other relics from the time.
The Roman Empire, under the rule of Julius Caesar, inducted Arles into the empire in 46 AD. This turned the city into a prominent sea-river port and spurred the expansion of the city, which grew to include the arena, forum and amphitheater we see in the center of Arles today.
The Arles-Rhône 3, and other ships like it, were integral to the flow of trade in and out of Arles. The markings on much of the discovered lost cargo allowed archaeologists to form an idea of the trade networks that connected Arles to the Mediterranean, which reached Carrara in the North of Italy and the Iberian Peninsula.
Stonework from the Roman era is on display in the Musée départemental Arles antique.
Amazed by such wonderfully preserved pieces of humanity’s history, I began my walk back into town. As I strolled alongside the Rhône yet again, I was reminded of how the boys from the Arlesian family I’m living with and I had biked from a picnic party the night before, going through a thicket to find a small, eroding section of riverbank along the Rhône.
There, we found a fire extinguisher floating within reach of the massive stick we had just pulled from a bush. We found that the extinguisher had expired in 2004. The fire extinguisher now sits on the floor of the shower in my host brothers’ bathroom. They intend to clean it and mount it on their wall.
A fire extinguisher is one of the newer relics salvaged from the Rhône River.
As I go over these memories in my mind, I am reminded of the peril that our world is in. Today, humanity continues leaving its mark on the Earth, creating a legacy that will show exactly how we lived our lives. Unfortunately, the legacy of our current era will not be of ancient wonder, but one of filth and reckless waste. Plastic and trash fills our rivers and seas, polluting them and choking life from the natural world. A couch sinks below the water’s surface. A fire extinguisher floats by. The rising waters eat away at the riverbank.
The world is experiencing change at an unprecedented rate because we are affecting it at a level never seen before in our history, but why is that? Recklessness. Humanity has acted upon this impulse for centuries, to burn whatever we have to in the interest of constant growth. A random passerby throwing a couch into a river embodies humanity’s comfort in a world where excessive waste is the norm and its destructive force is not fully recognized.
Vegetarianism is easy most places–you just need to get creative.
I recently stumbled over a curious fact posted byFrance Today: “Over 5% of the French population is vegetarian, compared with 10% in the United Kingdom, or up to 40% in India.” I guess what they were trying to say is that it’s a low percentage and ultimately it’s pretty hard to survive here as a herbivore. But in my experience, it’s easier to get vegetarian food than to explain my vegetarianism to locals.
Here is my brief guide to navigating the land of vegetarian scarcity. I hope that you’ll find it very French and very veggie-friendly.
1: Prioritize eating at home over restaurants.
My first day here in Arles, I found out that I had been matched to a vegetarian host family. Since that day, they have cooked only one meal with meat as the main dish — chicken — primarily because they had meat-eating guests over. My first night in Arles, I was treated with a gorgeous rice-based meal with tofu and asparagus. I couldn’t complain.
You may not find yourself in such a lucky situation. So, I suggest the second you step off your train–jet-lagged and sweltering from the high-noon heat–put your bags down in your Airbnb and go out looking for your local patisserie, fromagerie, then a cheeky little cave à vin. (I didn’t say I would be appealing to the gluten-free or dairy-free here. You all may be out of luck.)
In my case, I was able to find this fantastic Bio store right in downtown Arles by the LUMA. It’s got everything you’d ever need and more and I suggest you stock up because living on Mediterranean time means that from noon to 2 pm, and on Sunday, most grocery stores will be closed.
2: If you have to go to restaurants it’s easy!
Ordering anxiety is real. Vegetarian options are real too. You got this.
Start thinking like a local rather than a tourist. The classic dish in Arles (and allegedly the entire south of France) is gardiane de taureau–bull stew. It comes from the tradition of bullfighting, and it is NOT veg-friendly. Duh. Luckily, no one is making you order this, and there are plenty of other options.
One thing that tourists might find confusing here is the formule also known as the “deal meal.” This typically includes a main dish, a coffee, and a dessert, and it comes at a fixed price. These are rarely vegetarian so if you find yourself at a restaurant that has their big formule on display, ask for the menu!
During lunch hours this dish is usually most popular and some restaurants may not offer up the menu right away. I promise you, however, the menu will include a nice salad (maybe even with some local olives and burrata.) If you find yourself unable to locate any veggie mains, one of my favorite tricks is getting an assortment of appetizers. It’s especially fun in a big group and if you order the grande planche (large board) you’ll be able to satiate your meat-lover friends too.
3. Get creative with it!
You don’t have to be boring to be vegetarian. It’s not all salads and grazing– especially in a Mediterranean hub like France!
One of my favorite things to do is visit the Arles farmer’s market on Wednesday or Saturday mornings and just have a field day with the various stands. “Je voudrais…”
I often go to an olive stand that my French instructor showed us our first week in Arles and I love to get the spicy olives and the garlic ones. Just like every other Mediterranean dish they are covered in oil and Herbes de Provence and they are so tasty. The best thing is to get some brie, grab yourself a baguette, even some fougasse and indulge in fresh tomatoes or peppers.
A little bundle of strawberries isn’t all that bad for dessert either. Once you’ve gathered your goods take a walk to the Parc des Ateliers and find a shady patch of grass.
Walking hand-in-hand toward Place Voltaire, a mother and her small child sent opposing signals as we crossed paths. The woman glanced briefly at me, only for her eyes to revert forward. She was focused on the road ahead, seemingly unable to respond to my smile.
Her daughter grinned warmly at me and even turned her head to sustain eye contact once we were no longer facing each other. Neither of them recognized me, but the child felt inclined to match my expression. I considered the interaction pleasant, and my smile remained for another few steps. I looked to the left and noticed a man smirking at me. His look was not similar to that of the young girl I had just encountered. I felt inexplicably uneasy and shifted my eyes to the ground.
In moments of passing, I feel compelled to engage in nonverbal communication with most Arlesians, as if to say, “I notice you and you seem nice.” Unfortunately, I’ve come to the conclusion that it is better to avoid interacting with certain strangers completely.
Catcalling is a regular occurrence across this city and countless others. It seems as though certain men lurk on sidewalks for the sole purpose of leering at women. I close myself off at times to avoid unwanted advances. This is not to imply that any men I encounter in Arles are potentially dangerous or violent. Their attention simply evokes discomfort on my end.
I find it interesting that there are conflicting reactions between age groups. Little girls tend not to understand that smiling at anyone and everyone may send a particular message to creepy people that it is okay for them to approach you.
These interactions contribute to my general awareness. At one point or another, adolescents learn that not everyone is to be trusted. Before I came to this realization myself, I believed that the whole world interacted in the same manner as the small child and me.
I typically keep my eyes fixed and my head held high when walking to or from school. If well-intended adults smile at me, I either cannot tell or do not have enough time to return the favor. It is easier to stay shut off than to make 100 individual decisions about who is safe to smile at and who is not. Maybe the girl’s mother and I shared this attitude.
There is no real method of determining whether a particular person is fixed on their destination as a defense mechanism or simply not interested in communicating with others at a given time. Smiling at “inconnus,” those you do not know, is much less common in France than in the United States, leading to both positive and negative outcomes.
I was previously taken aback by its infrequency in Arles. My newfound understanding is that displaying any sort of expression opens a person up to assumptions from others. I cannot automatically assume that someone who does not smile at me is rude. Every expression holds a purpose.
LUMA Arles is not just an art museum. Guests enter the whimsical, stainless steel-clad LUMA Tower to meet intertwining metal slides accompanied by the eerie echoes of an hourly singing exhibition composed only of sounds. The design inspires excitement and confusion alike — a theme that continues far beyond the entrance. Inside the exhibits, visitors are encouraged to touch the work as if they’re an active member in the creation.
My visit there brings to mind “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.” Much like Charlie’s journey in Roald Dahl’s children’s book, in which a grim reality was revealed just beyond a fanciful entrance, my troubling fate awaited me beneath a staircase, one of many unique sets of stairs, this one mirrored a double helix.
Our group of American students stood together in a tired sweat as we surrounded our English-speaking tour guide. She introduced an exhibit featuring work by Diane Arbus, an American photographer who published most of her work during the 1960s. Arbus is most recognized for her style of direct and intimate photographs of “social deviants,” which often included members of the LGBTQ+ community, drag artists, nudists and sex workers.
The LUMA Arles exhibition “Constellation” is, with 454 photographs, the largest presentation to date of Diane Arbus’ work.
In introducing the exhibit, the tour guide said, “Diane Arbus’ subjects included … homosexuals and transvestites.”
My mind stopped, and I was taken back to Pride 2019 in New York City. Outside a sea of rainbow joy, transphobic protesters roared vile messages and “transvestite” was their slur of choice.
However, the tour guide’s usage was different. She wasn’t angry; she was addressing the subjects of Arbus’ work in a calm manner. I was struck. I had only heard this word paired with rage. I kept asking myself two questions: “How could this be said so casually? Is it possible they said the wrong word?”
I raised my hand, my only instrument to break the silence. “Why is it necessary to use the word transvestite?”
“Is there a different word you’d prefer?” the tour guide responded.
“Well, perhaps the word transgender or…” I offered.
Before I could finish my sentence, the tour guide told me there is a significant difference between the words transgender and transvestite. In the same breath, she said this was the language tour guides were instructed to use for a plethora of reasons — including the fact that Arbus used that word to title her works.
I knew the difference between the words and realized I should have used the word cross-dresser. The 11th edition of the GLAAD Media Reference Guide says cross-dresser has “replaced the offensive word ‘transvestite.’”
The tour guide serves as an educator and, in that role, has tremendous influence. I fear if global visitors to LUMA Arles hear a tour guide using the word, they will use it, too, without realizing how offensive it is.
This usage of this word upset me in 2019 and now again in 2023 for the same reason, but I too often forget that strangers don’t know why. I think everyone should be concerned about the usage of offensive language, but this word cuts deeper for me. I came out as transgender over eight years ago with pride and fear that still lives inside me. Today I have the privilege of “passing” as the woman that I am.
Each day I function like the entire universe knows that I am transgender. I’m always on guard, but it’s a personal battle only I’m aware of. To my knowledge, the LUMA tour guide didn’t know. This left me thinking, if she had known would she have used the word transvestite around me?
I take issue with the fact that Arbus had enormous power over her subjects. She was a cisgender white woman who was born into a wealthy family. There is a distinct power dynamic in which she held a remarkable amount of privilege over her subjects. She’s celebrated for her intimate portrayals of underrepresented subjects, but to me all of her work feels exploitative, as if she crossed a line that wasn’t hers to cross. I’m not the first to raise this issue; it was debated in her own era.
Yes, this was language that was used at the time, but the term transgender was coined in the 1960s, and people had been challenging the gender binary long before then. It’s possible that some of the drag artists Arbus photographed identified as transgender but hadn’t begun transitioning or more likely feared to start. We don’t know, but using more neutral language or even supplying context for the word would be an act of respect to Arbus’ subjects.
Instead, the conversation with the tour guide became an uncomfortable argument. This was not my intention, and as it continued, I felt the eyes of my peers with pain. What was I doing? As a proud and open trans woman, I am acutely aware of how important it is for me to speak up, but I always forget how difficult it is to do.
At the moment the group was silent, I had to excuse myself. My embarrassing fear was realized, I was the trans woman tearing up in the corner who couldn’t handle confrontation. However, I can recognize now this was not weakness, but strength.
At the close of my tour, I wanted nothing more than to leave and never be seen again. As a trans woman I yearn to be accepted in every space I enter, and often I’m the only one in the room. I wish to be able to blend in and be quiet. This time I spoke up.
After the tour, I spoke privately with the guide. She was apologetic and pledged to speak with her superiors about the use of the word. I recognize that the tour guide was not acting out of malice, but I question the attention to inclusive language in her training.
I don’t care what she titled her pieces; Arbus should not be the authority to follow.
This is a personal reflection and does not necessarily express the opinion of The Arles Project or program sponsors ieiMedia or Arles à la carte.
Although Arles is known as an inspiration for Vincent van Gogh, I discovered a more underground world of art while wandering its streets and alleyways. The walls are scattered with graffiti, vibrant colors, posters, stickers, and words of motivation. The walls serve as canvases not only for these underground artists but also for political activists who silently shout their opinions.
While I am used to seeing street art throughout the metro and buildings of Washington DC where I live, I sense a difference between the intentions of the painters here and there. Here, the message is more raw. Whether it is an inspirational phrase, a personal philosophy, or a political belief, the messages that are scrawled on the walls here seem to carry very personal meaning, as if the creator wrote it in the spur of the moment, flowing directly from their minds to their paint, and onto the vibrant walls of Arles.
In contrast, of course, the street artists in Washington, D.C., create art that is often astounding and impressive, yet their activism and beliefs tend to seem more “organized,” crafted and displayed in a manner tailored for maximum audience consumption.
The graffito “helm” can be found all over the Roquette neighborhood.
In Arles, there is a greater sense of passion and fury scrawled onto the walls. These graffiti were not meticulously planned or polished. They are an immediate reflection of the artist’s inner turmoil, inspiration and pride.
Walking through Arles’s smaller alleyways and slightly barren roads, I found more and more of these personal statements. In the Washington D.C. metropolitan area, poetry and political messages are mainly saved for their designated spots, with waves of political talk momentarily filling public spaces when there is new unrest. In Arles, however, it seems like an ongoing conversation. If someone wants their unique voice heard, they make it obvious. This is moving for me as someone who typically only looks straight ahead when I am walking through the big city.
Everything, where I am from, is impersonal, while here in this little town, it is the opposite. Among the vibrant messages, I find a sense of connection. I may not agree with every sentiment expressed, but there is something undeniably human about the act of putting one’s thoughts out into the world for all to see.
Among the messages:
“Long live France”
“The whole city is mine”
“64 years is not okay”
“Death to fachos”
“Win your life”
In Arles, the local population has a different perspective from mine on this abundance of street art. June Ofstedal, an intermittent resident, observes, “There’s so much stuff on the walls, like posters, that it all just sort of blends together.” Those who are new to Arles, it seems, are some of the only ones who stop and observe what is written and painted on the walls, as it is so common to the residents.
Not only do individual beliefs and messages exist, but there is an obvious presence of community and conversation between the street artists, no doubt due to the small size of Arles in comparison to Washington DC. During my exploration, I stumbled upon a particularly intriguing tag: the word “helm,” written in cursive with an elongated cross extending from the last mark of the letter ‘m’. This distinctive tag is found at least thirty times throughout the Roquette neighborhood. In some locations, the tag is left untouched; however, many times, another street artist has drawn a dash over it in a contrasting color or stroke. Rather than completely erasing the original tag, the dash seems to serve as a form of protest against it, drawing attention to the clash of styles.
The sheer repetition of the “helm” tag, appearing far more frequently than any other tag I encounter, adds an additional layer of intrigue to my exploration. I wandered around the Roquette for a couple hours, snapping photos of the tag wherever I found it. It is still unclear to me who the artist is, or what exactly it means, but I did find a couple messages next to “helm” that shed some light.
One striking message consists of an arrow pointing towards the tag with the words in French, “This is a fascist tag.” It’s apparent that “helm” sparked controversy and garnered criticism within the local street art community. Furthermore, I observed a curious trend among those who attempted to cover up the “helm” tag in Arles. It was clear that they made a deliberate effort to conceal the cross at the bottom of the letter ‘m,’ using various methods to do so. Some opted to place an ‘x’ over the cross, while one chose to overlay it with a heart symbol. In some instances, a simple dot of paint was sprayed over the cross, effectively erasing it from view. The acts of covering the “helm” tag created a visual conversation that unfolded across the walls of Arles. It reveals one story within the inherent power struggle of street art.
Another message, written by the helm artist themselves, read, “It is not against you!” This message appeared on a wall already covered in “helm” tags, offering a glimpse into the artist’s intent, which is perhaps seeking to assure viewers that the tag was not meant as a personal attack.
Upon further research into the symbolism associated with the “helm” tag and its accompanying heart symbol with a cross extending from its top and the singular eye, I discovered parallels to Christian imagery. The cross emerging from the top of the heart, resembling the Christian symbol of The Sacred Heart, adds a new layer of interpretation to the composition. The Sacred Heart is a religious emblem representing devotion towards Jesus Christ, and can be often seen in Christian art.
Additionally, the eye could be a reference to The Eye of Providence, an eye that represents the all-seeing eye of God, seen on the Great Seal of the United States. This mystical symbol represents divine guidance, protection, and omniscience.
Recently, however, during my stroll through the crowds of the photography festival in Arles, I stumbled upon a previously unnoticed wall, absolutely covered with countless “helm” tags and hearts. To not much of my surprise, most of these tags had been forcefully slashed in a striking blue paint. It was by far the most fervent display of opposition I had encountered against these tags.
Intrigued, I approached a woman standing nearby and struck up a conversation, and asked her if she knew the significance behind the tags. She said the blue slashes were a visual protest against fascist ideologies. As for the “helm” tag itself, she explained that it, along with the accompanying heart symbol, was seen by some as a representation of France as a Christian nation. The “helm” tag likely derived from someone’s name, lacking any overt political connotation, she said.
My exploration and findings in Arles serve as a reminder that street art, despite its bold and “in your face” nature, often carries a broader intention and deeper meaning. It seeks to provoke thought, spark conversations, and challenge societal norms.
This is a personal reflection and does not necessarily express the opinion of The Arles Project or program sponsors ieiMedia or Arles à la carte.
The worst part of the first day of class is introductions. I dread having to come up with five fun facts about myself on the spot to share with strangers I have yet to know. When I came to Arles for my study abroad program, it was no different. I heard one of my professors explain that we would start the lesson off that way, by getting to know each other.
She had just announced the agenda for the next few hours when she posed a question to the class about their pronouns. This part doesn’t bother me; it actually makes me feel welcome. But what I found interesting about it is that she mentioned “iel,” the gender-neutral pronoun in France.
“Iel,” pronounced roughly like “yell,” combines the male (il) and female (elle) pronouns of the French language and has been a source of contention within the country for some time. Originally introduced by the online French dictionary, Le Robert, in 2021, “iel” has upset multiple people who don’t consider it a part of the language.
One of the main forces against its usage is l’Académie Française, an institution that is designed to protect the French language. One of its statutes reads: “The main function of the Academy will be to work, with all possible care and diligence, to give certain rules to our language and to make it pure, eloquent and able to deal with the arts and sciences.” As of now, “iel” is not officially approved by l’Académie.
Prior to my trip to France, I wasn’t aware that a gender-neutral pronoun existed here. I was under the impression that it would not be a popular concept. But to my surprise, it had already been a topic of conversation.
Back in 2017, l’Académie Française wrote a statement on inclusive writing, warning that “with this ‘inclusive’ aberration, the French language is now in mortal danger, which our nation is now accountable to future generations.” This kind of reaction in regards to inclusivity reminded me of a similar sentiment that many people in my own culture share.
My native tongue, Spanish, has gendered pronouns for most of the words included in everyday language. And similar to the French, the Latinx community has been having a hard time accepting gender-neutral terminology. While it has gained some traction amongst folks, many do not understand it and are afraid of what it means to the integrity of a beloved culture. Some of the older generations in my family are so enthralled with tradition that they perceive this push for inclusivity as almost a personal attack on them.
As a queer person, it’s hard for me not to feel a little alienated anywhere I go. Most of the time, I don’t force people to use they/them on me in my everyday life since I do feel comfortable with feminine pronouns. But in Arles, I have had complicated emotions surrounding gender because it feels like I have to overperform femininity to fit into the culture, both for safety and acceptance. Outside of the classroom, I’m in an entirely new environment and it’s hard to understand what is socially acceptable and what isn’t.
However, I’m glad that this conversation has begun in Arles and France generally. Perhaps Spanish-speaking cultures will follow suit. Discussions about “iel” or even “elle,” pronounced like “eh-yeh,” in the Latinx community could make way for more inclusive language in the future.
This is a personal reflection and does not necessarily express the opinion of The Arles Project or program sponsors ieiMedia or Arles à la carte.
“There’s a bar around the corner,”my hostess told me a few days after I had been living with her in the south of France for my study-abroad program. “You’ll see a lot of men outside, but I’ve never felt unsafe walking past at night.” It was the first time I thought about how safe the neighborhood was.
When I prepared for my trip to Arles with ieiMedia, I researched the little town next to the Rhône and its culture. I learned that French cafes close between lunch and dinner. I worried about making a fool of myself when ordering iced coffee because it isn’t popular in France. But I never considered how I would get home at night, let alone how safe I would feel, even though it’s ingrained in my routine back home.
The night before my conversation with my hostess, I walked from a pub to the apartment pretty late down the skinny streets lined with old houses and apartment buildings. Of course, harmful situations for women can happen anywhere, but I didn’t feel at risk.
I didn’t consider why I felt this way until I had walked home with another student who said her route felt “sketchy” to her. And when a third student agreed, I began thinking about the differences I saw on her way home. Her route was sparsely lit with big, wide streets more suitable for cars.
Her walk home is very similar to my walk in California. I also have to go under an overpass and walk through a dim street. I walk on the opposite side of incoming cars and always call my mother or a friend as a sort of safety net. I change my routes and make sure no one follows me home.
There could be many reasons why I feel safer walking in my neighborhood in Arles. It doesn’t get dark until 10 p.m. and the buildings are much closer together compared with the wide open car-oriented streets of San Francisco. Cars barely squeeze by in my Arles neighborhood, which dates back to the medieval era, and when the sun does go down, lamps illuminate most, if not all, of the street.
When I walk in the morning, I see parents greet other parents as they take their toddlers to school and I watch friends chatting over their morning espresso at a little cafe. Seeing all the Arlesians meet for dinner or drinks while I walk home makes the neighborhood feel like a community, and I myself encounter acquaintances on the street. I also feel more efficient because Arles is so compact that I don’t have to carve out time to run across the city for a single errand.
Meanwhile my colleagues back home talk about how American cities are so car-dependent. Anytime I encounter friends spontaneously, it seems like an outlandish coincidence instead of just a probability. If my city was as walkable as Arles, I think I would feel more calm there as well.
This is a personal reflection and does not necessarily express the opinion of The Arles Project or program sponsors ieiMedia or Arles à la carte.
As I walk the narrow streets of Arles, I find myself pausing periodically to admire a piece of graffiti, art displayed in storefront windows, or the occasional flier posted around the city, of which there are plenty. Many of the pieces I am stopping for are public art that display entirely nude figures or they incorporate messages of sexuality or love.
My assumption is that these are no more than your average piece of artwork to the French and to Arlesians, hence their public display. While I was eating lunch Tuesday and absentmindedly watching French cable television, none of which I understood, on came a commercial depicting a group of nude male and female models being doused in colorful plumes of smoke. It wasn’t until the end of the commercial that I even knew it was an advertisement for deodorant. I sat back and thought, “Wow, that would never fly in Salt Lake City, Utah.”
Utah is largely known for its five beautiful national parks, outdoor recreation opportunities and, of course, its impressive population of members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (LDS), in which I was raised. The religion itself is a branch of Christianity which shares many of the same beliefs as other Christian religions, but varies in certain aspects. For the purpose of this reflection, I’ll stick to the beliefs I grew up with surrounding sex, modesty and virtue.
As a young girl, I was first introduced to the concept of sex and intimacy through the context of the LDS church. I was instructed to treat sex as an extremely intimate and sacred act only permitted between a married couple, (additionally– only between a heterosexual and cisgendered couple) for the purpose of reproduction and an important stepping stone towards a primary goal of LDS members, to bear and raise children.
As a pre-teen and teenager in the church, I learned the church’s guidelines on morality.
For women, there were no tank tops, no shorts shorter than three inches above the knee, same deal with skirts, no midriff visible, no tattoos or facial piercings beyond one ear piercing in each ear, no low T-shirts or dresses, etc. What I disliked about these messages, even from a young age, was how closely these rules were tied to self worth.
In Salt Lake City, if someone is not viewing intimacy through a religious lens they are talking about it in a way that is so hypersexualizing that it is dehumanizing. It feels as though there is very little room for healthy sensuality.
Thankfully, being raised by a rather feminist mother, I was taught that I am very capable and what other people think of me is not my concern. I was never attracted to the “better than” narrative I was picking up on through these lessons: “Women who show lots of skin are often women of bad morals,” “Women who have sex out of marriage lack dignity and self respect.”
In high school, I pierced a second hole in each of my ears, and the glances and suspicion really only increased from that point up until last year, when I signed a letter, had it notarized and sent to the LDS Church’s lawyers, notifying them of my wish to be removed as a member and have my records erased. I had stopped attending church a few years previous to this, but the decision still made my mother cry, and my father sigh. My extended family still doesn’t know, as far as I know.
In Arles and perhaps in all of France, nudity and sexuality appear to be less of a taboo subject than in the United States with its Puritan roots.
I am grateful that through personal growth I have come to find my body as a gift given unto myself, one that is capable and is able to feel all things from sensuality to sadness. I am grateful for having open conversations with friends that help normalize intimacy and encourage comfortability in my skin.
I am grateful that in other areas of the world, such as Arles, nudity and the human figure are spoken about in terms of art and beauty, and not in privacy and shame. I hope one day to see nudity and physicality and intimacy portrayed in this manner at home, where women feel uncomfortable in their feelings and skin. I will bring more of this approach home with me, and will continue to discourage negative language around the human body, sexuality and intimacy, and act as the French seem to–as though it is something normal and even beautiful. Because it is.
This is a personal reflection and does not necessarily express the opinion of The Arles Project or program sponsors ieiMedia or Arles à la carte.
Last Tuesday in Arles, I was walking back to my host home when I heard a smack and a splat. Looking over my shoulder, I saw a small black sparrow spread-eagle on the ground looking around like it was waiting for me to tell it what just happened.
After watching the bird make a few failed attempts at flight, I thought to myself, “I’ve never touched a wild bird before.” It seemed its shock at hitting a wall had turned into helplessness as it just lay there with its wings spread wide. Stroking the wings and body with the back of my middle finger, I could see that this bird was in no immediate presence of death. “Maybe a broken foot?” I thought as it gave another effort of flight that jumped me back into the street. Natalia Puglia, a language teacher and interpreter for Arles à la carte, stopped on her bike and told me that sparrows can’t fly from the ground and need wind or velocity from height to take flight; so this bird was not broken, it was just stuck in a rut.
Before I could think of anything to do, a woman approached the three of us and had a quick exchange of words with Natalia in French that went along the lines of “What happened?” “This sparrow ran into the wall and can’t take flight on its own.” Without hesitation, this woman scooped up the sparrow in her hands and gently examined its body. Not only was I surprised that the sparrow made no attempt to prevent this from happening, but I was also slightly jealous that I missed the opportunity to hold and help the bird. After only a few seconds and the lifting of her hands, the sparrow took flight in the direction it had been going when it crashed and landed on a windowsill. We exchanged glances, assumed the bird was safe and said, “Bonne nuit,” and went our separate ways.
How quickly, confidently, and casually all parties–other than myself–handled this situation really shed light on the different air in the streets of Arles. I’ve seen and been a part of conversations that consisted of strangers asking about each other’s children and wellbeing, and leashless dogs looking over their shoulders to check in with their owners as they walk down busy streets in the middle of the day. Arlesians show a calmer attitude than I see in people back home toward flies and mosquitos. Their sensitivity to nature almost brings to mind stories I’ve heard of Native Americans who could pick up a scent in the wind as they ran without sound or shoe through woods and forests. There is an energy that is quick acting but also calm and collected, that is so natural and harmonious with its surroundings that I can’t think of another way to say it other than that Arlesians are tapped into something special.
This is a personal reflection and does not necessarily express the opinion of The Arles Project or program sponsors ieiMedia or Arles à la carte.
An international reporting project co-sponsored by ieiMedia and Arles à la carte.
