In 1985, I returned to France after living in the USA for many years. I had recently finished my studies at NYU and was very happy to leave very noisy New York City. To a musician’s ears those fire trucks, A train platforms and sudden burst of jack hammers in the middle the evening were pure torture. They gave me heart palpitations; & my heart beats like an atomic clock…
So here I was in the quiet village of St Cyr la Rosière, living in a house designed by monks in the 15th century. Four square rooms with tall French windows, built around a spiral staircase, one sink with a few drops of hot water, and a marvellous stone out house. Within walking distance from a village robed in rose bushes, a cosy roman chapel where I would sing every day. The wooden ceiling gave it the resonance of a luth. Here, I often heard the voices of the angels born from my own.
Soon my wife to be, who had stayed back in New York City to pursue her adventures as a photographer, informed me that she was pregnant. It was swiftly decided that she should come home.
As her belly flourished and her breasts bloomed, she became more quiet. For this purpose, I created a stone platform under our linden tree, sculpting the low branches into a secret hideaway. She rested there every day while I worked on improving the house and garden. Just the Three of us living in the garden of Eden. Watching the…
