L’atelier de Michel
In addition to the wonderful worlds I was being introduced to and initiated into each day of the Intensive, there was an exploration of the charming medieval town of Chartres. I had an advantage in that I spoke French, and I found myself acting as translator around tables at restaurants as Americans struggled to find what they wanted to eat from the confusing menus. Initially I was rather shocked at the cultural naïveté and the limited exposure most of the group had had to anything outside the US. It was an eye-opener for me since at that stage I had still not ventured to visit that vast country. The Intensive was true in the literal sense of the word as I was also being immersed in America and all things American. One of my roommates was an obsessive-compulsive and had brought her entire daily food requirements for the week with her to Chartres, opening tins and packets containing her meals and carrying them around in her rucksack. She never once attempted a meal in a little French bistro!
It was a sharp learning curve, and I found myself seeking solitude and quiet times, exploring the cathedral and the network of small streets and alleyways of the town. I wandered off the tourist tracks, walking further away from the busy central area around the imposing edifice of the cathedral. In truth, I needed to find and play a piano. To my surprise there was no piano in the seminary, although there were several well-proportioned rooms which I was sure would have superb acoustics. But the spaces where a piano should ideally be placed were empty.
My lunchtime exploration on the second day bore fruit, and I found a faded poster pinned on a huge green double door directly facing onto a cobbled street; the kind which allows farm vehicles to go through. These doors are usually closed, and people step through a smaller opening framed within it. This was an old barn, a grange, and the poster sent a shiver through me as I recalled my recurring dream from five years before.
I could make out the words in bold and large type Atelier des pianos and a poor image of a grand piano with another of its inside mechanisms. There was a name – Michel – and a phone number. The poster was clearly several years old and of course the door was locked. In fact, the building looked deserted, abandoned. I decided to return later anyway, and at the close of the afternoon session and before I could be hijacked for my translator role, I hurried back to the green door.
I tried the handle on the small opening portion, and it opened. I stepped through and over the threshold and took in the untidy yard, littered with discarded rusting and ancient farm implements. On my left there was a door with a dusty window which I peered through. As my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, I saw the space was stacked with pianos. Oh my word, it was almost like my dream except these were all pianos made of wood, though certainly of different epochs. But they beckoned.
I knocked, opened the door and entered into a slightly dusty, musty space. There was a shaft of light from a skylight somewhere at the end of the long room, and I carefully made my way down the aisle between pianos on either side. I then noticed the curly black hair of someone bent over a workbench, deep in concentration. He had clearly not heard my knock. ‘Bonjour, monsieur’ , I said softly and stood at a slight distance awaiting his response.
He looked up, a bit startled and surprised to find an unannounced and unexpected visitor. Michel was younger than I expected, and I sensed that he was shy when he stuttered a greeting. I apologised and introduced myself and my quest for a piano, describing how I had expected to find one in St Yves, the seminary, and was now searching for a piano in Chartres.
‘Could I please… ? Was there one here, which I could just…?’ He explained that the pianos were mostly in states of disrepair, many without their mechanisms, and he pointed to a few pieces stacked precariously here and there. But there were one or two I could try, waving to an upright piano positioned in the middle of a cluster.
I squeezed between two pianos and had to remain standing. There was nothing to sit on, but neither was there enough space to place a stool. Even so, standing there upright, with my hands resting on an old once-elegant Playel, when the notes rang out, I was pleased to hear that the tuning was really quite good. Actually, with all the wood around, the resonance in that cluttered atelier was powerful. I had an image of all the pianos combining their energies in one huge sound-board, as they responded to the playing in their midst.
I played. It was not ideal of course in that position, but the music found its voice and I began to feel myself calming and centering and becoming more grounded. When I finished and while the notes were still hanging in the field, I turned to Michel who was sitting quietly – clearly moved at hearing his old piano played in the atelier. I wondered when last that had happened.
It had been a therapeutic session I sensed, for both of us. He agreed to my coming back at specific times during the rest of the week. I felt relief at the prospect of having a retreat from the intensity of the group experience I was part of, as though I had been given a safety valve through which I could let off steam and ground myself.
The next day, when I escaped from Wisdom University to Michel’s Atelier, a different arrangement greeted me. He had moved some pianos, creating a space around the piano and had placed a stool there too. I knew I was a welcome visitor this time.
For the remaining days of that intensive week in Chartres, Michel and I got to know each other, shared some special times and I survived all the subsequent initiations.