Journey Diary

June 2006

Easyjet to Geneva. First panic, forgot my jacket. No massive deal, there was nothing important in it, just the fact that it was a jacket and now I don't have one. I hope it doesn't rain. Luckily it's 30 degrees in Geneva, perhaps I'll buy a waterproof in Gstaad.

Second panic, buying a train ticket, I couldn't tell what the machine meant, eventually sorted it and went for the train. The 16.01 to Lausanne was already leaving but fortunately a man was separated from his family who had managed to get on the train. He managed to force the doors. His cock-up, my fortune, I might make it to Gstaad for the England game yet.

Was still not convinced that I was on the right train until I asked the lady opposite ,she doesn't speak English but was able to re-assure me, phew the ticket man has just checked my ticket and has said, "changer a Lausanne." So I am on the right track.

Slithering alongside Lake Geneva, I feel glad the first of many journeys to be had is underway. I guess the destination of this trip is home via the Black Virgin. God I hope everything is okay with the steadicam. I hope I don't get arrested. The ticket inspector should be in my film, ho looks about nineteen.

17.00 train from Lausanne to Montreux, shit it's a stopper, it could take ages to get to Montreux, then its another hour and 20 minutes , I'll never get to the match on time.

Aboard the 17.45 Montreux to Gstaad train. Vague panic as it looks a bit posh! I'll find out as soon as the ticket inspector comes. Might just catch the second half. This train is also air conditioned and very comfortable. I'm beginning to like the look of ticket inspectors, they manage to confirm I'm on the right train.

18.06. Two lovers kiss on a train travelling in the opposite direction. Manage to see the second half of the match, nothing special although a 2-0 win is enough to qualify for the next round. Tomato pasta in Gstaad, in Café Pernet, otherwise known as Rich's pub. Phone call to Harry, no answer. Jurgen sounded hassled but obliging. Another man watching the football, not sure where from but was supporting England. Pasta not much cop but filling. Third beer not as tasty as the first but still I have to wait till ten to be let in to the chalet. Where is the seedy underbelly of Gstaad? It's a funny thing boys at bars, catching each others gaze before flitting the head away.

Finally picked up at 11.00 after a few hairy thoughts about sleeping rough or finding a hotel. Jurgen is a nice guy and took me to Marc and his Chalet. Finally I get to set foot in a real Swiss chalet   - to climb inside the chocolate box. Shoes off, would you like to share a spliff? Jurgen used a great word for hinges but I can't remember what it is. I wonder what the day will bring. Marc due to arrive at lunch time, perhaps I'll have checked in to my hotel by then. The search for the seedy underbelly of Gstaad is underway. Conversations with Jurgen have revealed a concerted effort by the local bigwigs to maintain the face of Gstaad at all costs. Any decisions that are made are made 'democratically' although the democracy is a façade as the bigwigs will make note of everybody voting against them and deal with these people accordingly, i.e. make it difficult for them in their everyday lives - to get work etc.

Also met an English odd job man or 'Delboy' who suggested that there are two brothels nearby. One in Chateau d'Oex and the other somewhere else. The only sign of an underclass so far are the children who have nothing to do. Jurgen's project is to help deal with this. There is indeed a divide between rich and poor (the town façade divides the two, perhaps the front of the Chalet - the set).

Harry was able to enlighten me about this over a couple of beers. He also talked about the fact that the young local workers (or sons and daughters of) try to keep up with the rich kids but obviously haven't got the money to do it - that leads to more trouble. Harry also talked about the possibilities of staying at a castle near Toulouse if I need to follow up my Poulenc project.

Am due to meet the rest of the jury at the Belevue at 8. The main purpose apart from introductions was to eliminate films that really don't fit in to the festival theme. Harry took me to see Marc and Ann who had already gone to bed. Their journey was terrible, it's a long way to drive from Ireland to Switzerland in a camper van.

Harry took me to his studio, I'm jealous its an amazing wooden ex-school house and museum that he and other artists use for free. It's absolutely massive, the smell of wood and turpentine are the most striking things. I know its summer but the place smells of warmth. Harry suggested its because of the whole place being made of 'living' material.

We drank beer and smoked a spliff with Andreas and talked more about Gstaad. Harry talks of his master plan to get the rich to give a small percentage or real estate transactions towards social housing. He suggests a similar idea for art. Sales where the big money buyers give a small percentage of the sale price of a Picasso or whatever to emerging artists. I don't know how this would work. Andreas reminded me that the reason that the rich are rich is because they don't give it away. He talked about a socialist capitalism and a system where the rich would become competitive with each other over how much they had given to these worthy causes.

Looking forward to today, I don't think the language will be a problem. So language is a problem. Not because I don't speak French or German or Swiss but because a couple of the jury speak a different creative language. Jean-Paul and Sylvain are 'film-makers'. Brigitte understands the language of contemporary fine art and so does Fabiana. Things come to a head over a ridiculous video - even Jen-Paul's wife got involved. It was ridiculous, he was saying, 'in that case anything can be art' and, 'I could film that fan and call it art'. It was a bit like teaching on Foundation again. Another 40 films to watch today and then the battle will commence. The whole process of selection becomes a journey.

The evening was good - strange to be the only one who doesn't speak the language. I found myself drifting in to my own head and allowing waves of words to wash over me. Christine did her best to make British small talk, bless her. I felt patronised by her lack of understanding of contemporary art. Remind me to dress and act older for occasions like this. Beat also did his best to accommodate my lack of linguistic ability. After was better, Harry as ever was great. Fabiana told me about her work and presented me with a beautiful book about her work. It appears that she had a very famous `Brazilian artist as a father. A couple of beers and a few laughs. The police were cracking down on drunk driving - the word went round all the pubs, the jungle grapevine in full effect.

So the journey continues, language difficulties have been overcome and we now have a new Golden Cow winner. It was the wrong choice in my view but it was democratic despite Sylvain suggesting that there should be no prize because of the bad quality of the work. Jean-Paul warmed to me today, I think because I made his wife laugh and blush at the dinner table, ' for a tiddly winks player I'm a fucking good artist'. She did try and translate but gave up realising the futility of her task. A much better day though - better work and we the jury all knew each other a lot better. Discussion over lunch in the Beat's garden until the rain came down. Back to Rich's pub for more beers and back to Marc's to see Ann and the baby. Great food, a lift to the station where a brass band saw me off. Waiting for the train, Marc described the Swiss law governing suicide. It appears that it is not mentioned - it is in fact against the law. He also talked about the 4 suicides that have happened since he was there. Including the woman who returned to the exact spot where her daughter leapt to her death two months before, only to do the same. Another great thing to sweep under the Gstaad carpet or to hide behind the chalet front.

A beer by lake Geneva watching the France Korea game. While looking for a toilet I was followed by a man who I think hoped that I am gay or lonely or both - shook him off and finally found somewhere for a crap. Sleeper train - I didn't think it was possible to sleep 6 in such a confined space. Of course I had the top bunk - the sauna section as it is now known - not much sleep, tossing and turning. Just an hour and a half to go. One and a half more hours of this sweaty hell with the snoring girl beneath me.

So this is Venice. Beautiful city, easy to get lost. Lost in the labyrinth of streets, lost inside your head. Exaggerated through audio tour guide describing Titian after Titian. The Basilica San Marco. Wished I hadn't sat here for a beer, charged for the music without realising, £5.50 for the pleasure. Won't do that again. Adopted by two Americans in the same hotel. Invited for supper. Erin talks about wrestling with her compositing conscience when she describes retouching faces for anti-wrinkle cream ads. Ann talks about her problem with Hilary Clinton also about being regressed by her father to a place where she felt trapped and couldn't escape. They both talk about family and we agree to join forces for the glass factory the next day. They talk about family and the freakish religious nuts of Utah, Mormons who don't believe in sex before marriage and who baptise the dead. Great company, we part company, swap emails. I agree to send Ann some marmite.

Venice, Marco Polo airport   next - the journey continues, hope I'm in time for the England Sweden game. 2-2, the result is fine. Hassle to find bar with the match on but managed to watch most of it. Hotel fine - a bit basic but comfortable. Absolutely knackered after getting up at 4.30. 30 Euros for a taxi and now the real journey starts - the whole reason I'm here. The journey   moves in to another new phase. Just trying to get inside he head of Poulenc - trying to match my anxieties and thoughts with his, seventy years ago - trying to feel the same kind of emotions - two poles - stretching further apart - with me in the middle trying to hold on to both while they pull further away. I wonder if the religious dilemma was anything like the way the biographers write? Did he feel as in limbo as I do on this journey? Will the final encounter with that little black virgin act as the final piece of the jigsaw for me as it was inspiration for him? Both of our goals are enlightenment of a sort. I hope the little pot of gold helps to unravel the deliberately twisted and tangled thoughts and emotions that this performed journey are creating. As each new episode takes place, so the threads become more tangled - each new flight, every hotel, every train, bus, car journey helps to increase the confusion, a chaos to be tamed. But the figurine in that small chapel.

Plane delayed. Oh well this increases the pressure. Why is it so that artists need such turmoil? Something I haven't seen for a long time, the girl next to me sketching faces. Flight delayed, an hour late, car picked up and the beginning of a long day. First to Rocamadour - the GPS really helped. Station found - chapel found. The Black Virgin really did seem insignificant amongst hassle of this whole trip. There she was perched high above head height just looking down at me. I'm sure I saw her smile a little. Decided to try the walk from Rocamadour town to the station - its much longer than I thought at least an hour there and an hour back. Filmed the journey there - stedicam okay - perfected the best way to carry it. Tourist info lady wasn't much help - she sold me a map and sneered beautifully. So the day starts in a confused manner. It's strange how difficult it is to gather my thoughts - I guess its being on my own. When removed from others my head seems to descend in to turmoil - ordinary decisions become very difficult. I suppose being tired doesn't help but even so. What route shall I take, which order do I put things? You would have thought that the mind would be concentrated when the normal distractions of life are removed, but it seems the opposite has happened, my mind feels cluttered with being in a strange place. Trying to decide which direction to take having left the camera recording a simulated journey on the GPS. Having coffee and croissant to try and sort things out. I will organise two taxis from the various stations from here, must find a phone box. Will also talk to the hotel people about filming through the door. Good news, the Hotel Teyssier appears to have opened up today after the owners have been on holiday - good luck after bad. Continuing bad news - it's raining - the worst thing that could happen. I don't have a waterproof cover for the camera, I don't have an umbrella. I very almost despair. This journey is fated. I only hope that the black virgin can bring me some luck. I guess I sit it out and hope that the rain stops before attempting to call cabs etc. If it's arsing it down it will be pointless filming at all. I'll just sit here and listen to the GPS in the boot doing the virtual journey that I would like to do in real life. I wonder what Francis would have made of all this - can you have a virtual pilgrimage? So the change of plan to record the journey by car and stop off at the stations en route. All the way to Rocamadour. Maybe the journey from his point of view is not necessary. Sitting now, I feel completely despondent. I have filmed the climbing of the steps up to the sanctuary and the chapel where she sits and I feel drained. Despite her little miracle she performed with the weather, I feel like she has sucked all of the life out of me. Suddenly I feel exhausted. This is strange because ideas wise there are some things coming together but instead of the elation, I feel depressed. I will go and have a word with her shortly. She is in her case, lit to perfection. The light seems to be trapped in that case. It's as if she's not prepared to give out any light. The glass of the case keeping her light in. I'm asking her to speak to me. I move nearer so I can get a better look at her face. I'm asking if she parted the skies for me. I'm asking her to give me a sign. I'm standing in front of her closed eyes. Daring them to open. Perhaps she needs more candles lit for her. At two euros, surely a bargain. I'm just wondering how this thing could have affected him so deeply. I guess without the crowds there could be a completely different feeling in here.

Home via Uzerche, gained permission to film inside tomorrow. All systems go for the morning. The journey will start. Apprehension is a strange thing, the brain seems focused and confused at the same time.

I am sitting in my hotel room thinking about how he might have been feeling that morning. I wonder if he had any idea what was to happen in just a few hours time. He must have had some idea that he was beginning to lean more towards his religious side - it can't have come like a bolt from the blue, can it? It's strange I am waiting for my journey just as he was waiting for his, both with an idea of what is to come, that is the practicalities of any journey, train times, taxis etc. But neither of us quite know what is to happen en route and also when we get there. I guess it's the same for any journey. You generally have a reason to be going on it but; a-the reason may change when you get there and b-an awful lot of things can happen on the way. So the journey is complete. I have a beer to celebrate - there she was just the same as yesterday, watching over. I swear she winked at me today - as if to say - I know what you're going through, its all worth it you know. I was struck by a woman praying as my journey culminated. She sobbed and sniffed and prayed. I hope my filming doesn't disturb her too much, although I know SHE would forgive me. I guess I am fulfilled in some way - I would have been more so if the train from Brive to Rocamadour hadn't been replaced by a bus! Not exactly the journey I had planned but I guess there were train problems even in his day. Perhaps a taxi instead of a replacement bus would have been his salvation. Every journey has its problems and this is no exception. With most of my filming complete I intend to drink heartily tonight to the health of Poulenc, the life of the BV and a small toast to me for coming through this. I wonder if he went straight home. I wonder if he had a beer? I wonder if he felt immediately fulfilled or that came later. I wonder if he wondered much at all - till later.

It's strange I feel like I could sit here for ever. If only that feeling of momentary peace could last forever. Tomorrow its home time and the rest of life's pressures flood in as the tide of this trip subsides. This peace is spoiled by the thoughts of tomorrow. Even with all of the treasures that await me. Even with the draw of the ones I love. One journey after another after another after another, only the train to Uzerche, car to Chamboulive and then the car to Toulouse and then Plane to Bristol and then taxi home to go and then I'll be home. I won't forget the man who gave me a bottle of water free of charge on my 5k walk to Rocamadour station - the BV again? The same BV that made the Rocamadour - Brive train late so I missed my connection. Sitting on an ancient train to Uzerche.

So when does any journey end? Is it a case of time being up? Or is it when whatever was intended is established? This trip has so many facets. Its hard to know when it is complete. It feels done right now but I now have the small matter of going home. Is a journey ever complete or does memory elongate it as residue is left behind. Events and people that keep that journey alive as every moment is constantly re-constituted through time and discussion. As each moment is remembered and recounted, so the detail slightly shifts - the journey continues. It also continues in the minds of who has been told. Whether they choose to push that journey further, it's up to them but just as any information taken in results in a miniscule change in one's psyche. So the journey continues. Toulouse airport is a desolate place. Its almost deserted.