TARTARONNE

"Baaa-haaha-haaa Ba-haaaaaaa-haaaa..."

An obnoxious sound floating on the morning mist. A cross between the sound of somebody puking and vulgar laughter. Repeated and echoed along the hill-side of a mountain in Central Massif, France.

Shortly after blackish heads materialize from the mist followed by their grey-white, brown-black woolly bodies.

Only sheep! Phew.....

Following the flock, a shepherd, his dog trailing close behind him. Criss-crossing to keep the sheep well together.

The shepherd himself almost a phantom, ancient or alien (?), with distant day-dreaming eyes. Arms hanging loose, hands prosaically and busily knitting stockings for colder days.

An eerie sight. Weatherbeaten and life-worn. Wise as the world or plainly simpleminded?

A long time ago my Ace reminded me that I had to pick a name and write an introduction...or something.

I picked the name 'tartaronne' because it was a title of one of my father's prints hanging just in front of me – he was an artist. Tartaronne was a five-farm village in France which we as a family lived in for a month. Grandmother, mum, dad, two teenagers and a boyfriend.

I think it was a turning point for me as a 16 year old: On the verge of becoming a grown-up. Understanding art in another way. Enjoying mountains, which we don't have in Denmark. Sensing history, struggling with identity and changing focus from family to a life I had to choose on my own....you get the gist.

And the first morning in this primitive farmhouse, outside all alone, enjoying life, this flock of sheep and their shepherd passed by.

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