What I Hope My Son Learns in France

Marnay-sur-Seine, France, 2011

This summer, I’m taking my son Lucian with me to an artist residency in France. I’ll be reading, thinking, walking, probably eating a lot of cheese, and making water color paintings. He’ll be doing what eleven-year-olds do—being curious, bored, brave, distracted, joyful, and occasionally annoyed that the bread isn’t sliced. I could say this is just a trip. But it’s more than that. Here’s what I hope he learns while we’re there. These pictures are from an art residency I did in 2011, before Lucian was born.

1. That creativity is a way of life.
Not a talent. Not something that happens only at school or on weekends. I want him to see that you can shape your whole life around making things—how you see, how you listen, how you notice. That art is a lens, not just an outcome.

2. That discomfort is part of growth.
Travel can be awkward. There will be language barriers, cultural mix-ups, and meals he doesn’t recognize. But I hope he feels proud of himself in those moments—realizing he’s capable of change and travel of being just a little braver than he thought.

3. That slowing down helps you see more.
France moves at a different rhythm, and art residencies certainly do, much much slower. There will be long, slow lunches. Afternoons that stretch. Moments where nothing happens and everything does. I hope he sees the beauty in quiet time, in paying attention, in boredom even—and how that space is where ideas start to bloom.

Marnay-sur-Seine, France, 2011

4. That adults can start over.
I want him to know that his mom is still becoming what I want to be. That we’re never stuck in one version of ourselves. I hope he sees that trying something new—especially when it’s uncertain—is not a sign of failure but of courage.

5. That the world is wide and waiting.
This might be the most important one. I want him to feel the bigness of the world—not in a scary way, but in a thrilling one. To know there are so many ways to live. So many paths to take. And that he doesn’t have to have it all figured out, ever. He loves order and routine, which is great, but sometimes you have to change things up a bit.

—

This residency is for me, yes—but maybe it’s also for him. For both of us, really. A little window cracked open, or a door.

xx Ellen

Marnay-sur-Seine, France, 2011