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Tradition in Aix-en-Provence
- Intrusion of the past into the present |
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Traditions
are stylised, institutionalised, or self-consciously glamorised,
they become tourist fodder, interesting as diversion, but, alive,
thanks largely to life-support systems. The most primitive, and
pure, have succeeded in uniting pagan and Christian, pre-history
and history, hobgoblins and gods, consciousness and the subconscious.
One meets them every day, refraining to walk under ladders, or
sit down at a table laid for thirteen.
And
yet, this is where the fun begins. Provence is full of it. Thirteen
desserts served on Christmas eve, thirteen places set at
the table, one being reserved for the poor beggar (perhaps Jesus
in disguise ?) the exuberant misbehaviour of youth during carnival,
and solemn religious observances that express a world, society,
culture, and family still struggling with fate, fortune, and
forces that shake and shape the balance of a common destiny.
To
the reading classes that hardy pioneer, Lawrence Wylie in Roussillon,
and that devout ascetic, Peter Mayle near Lacoste (are not anthropologists
simply frustrated novelists, or is it the other way round?) spent,
as we know, "tough years" in Provence sitting in, or
was it on, the pot, before lifting the lid and liberating the
heady, sun-drenched aromas, the bouillon de culture, of
the "warm south".
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In
the process, the village in the Vaucluse and the Luberon itself, lost,
perhaps more than the tour operators, local economy, and estate agents
gained. "Progress", say some, "rape", say
others who see tatters of their soul up for sale on the tinsel market
place
of the media. Those who profess to take intelligent interest in "tout
ce qui est humain" may be sure that we have the best reasons
in the world for getting it all wrong, and , without prying, distorting
mirrors, become a part of the problem. |
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The
traditions of Provence are reflected in its spiritual, social,
and economic infrastructure. We find them in the home, at the
butchers, bakers, markets, church, in village festivals,
crèches,
pastorales. And we find them, sometimes deep buried in the collective
unconscious of a land too often invaded (and ravaged) by plague,
by the Celts, Romans, Visigoths, Saracens, Franks, and torn apart
by feudal rivalry and wars of religion. The confetti sprinkling
that follows in no way covers ground that is as rich and profound
as it is wide.
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