They said he was perhaps the last builder of pointus in France. He was 83 years old and lived in Saint-Aygulf, a small town on the Mediterranean almost midway between Cannes and Saint-Tropez. His name was Raphaël Autiéro.
I was struck by the suggestion of logging wood when there is the least amount of light in the atmosphere. In Tuscany, when I was (re)building my old farmhouse, the workers insisted that the chestnut roof beams should be from wood harvested at the dark of the moon in January. If not, they said, you risk an infestation of woodworm and other undesirables. I like Raphaël's description of the wood "in flower." I imagine Odysseus made the same stipulation when he ordered the boats that would take him to Troy. And home again.
The story touched me because I watched those boats go out every morning and return in the evening from the balcony of my hotel in Cassis...not knowing the name of the boats nor the story behind the art of building them. They were the vehicle for the delivery of some fabulous loup de mer. I hope the art of when to harvest wood doesn't get lost in this world on a fast track.
Great story beautifully written, Richard. Thanks. The photos are also fabulous, especially the one of Raphael working close-up. Thanks. A man whose hands know the world.
I love meeting these special characters through your writing. My father was a builder, but also but his own small sailboats, so I recognize the smell and feel of all that wood. Yes, being able to produce such a useful, lasting piece is a gift, but your writing has the same effect. No doubt about that, Richard.
I stopped in mid step when I open your story and then sat down on the nearest chair to read, so captivating and essential your story is. All the heart you put into conveying both the essence of Raphael's blessed life and the sorrow of what passef along with him. But oh what joy! And what a hope to be like him and, as you so wonderfully say, be able to feel at the end of your days you were as useful and gave so much to the world as he did. Your story is a reminder to strive for that.
Thank you for this piece, Richard. You were lucky to meet Raphaël. Artisans who work with "les matières nobles" like wood develop a different perspective on life, work, time. The daily company of wood that they know inside out and shape into long-lasting objects gives them a certain peace of mind, it seems. I have observed it with luthiers, for example. There is something highly therapeutic in visiting the violin maker's shop in my home town and taking in that space (the age-old, oddly shaped tools, the calm, etc.). Your reflection at the end brings to mind a nice modern sonnet by Jacques Reda, called 'Le charpentier.' As he is writing, building a house of words, the poet is also watching through the window, a man working on a roof, skillfully assembling pieces of wood, and reflecting on his own trade.
Thank you, Olivier. I wish I knew more about working with "les matières nobles". (I still have a dream about building a house.) But I agree. It's like gardening, too. I will search out the Reda poem!
I was struck by the suggestion of logging wood when there is the least amount of light in the atmosphere. In Tuscany, when I was (re)building my old farmhouse, the workers insisted that the chestnut roof beams should be from wood harvested at the dark of the moon in January. If not, they said, you risk an infestation of woodworm and other undesirables. I like Raphaël's description of the wood "in flower." I imagine Odysseus made the same stipulation when he ordered the boats that would take him to Troy. And home again.
That's a great story, Nancy. Have you written it?
The story touched me because I watched those boats go out every morning and return in the evening from the balcony of my hotel in Cassis...not knowing the name of the boats nor the story behind the art of building them. They were the vehicle for the delivery of some fabulous loup de mer. I hope the art of when to harvest wood doesn't get lost in this world on a fast track.
That had to be a very special time for you.
I hope so, too.
Great story beautifully written, Richard. Thanks. The photos are also fabulous, especially the one of Raphael working close-up. Thanks. A man whose hands know the world.
Thank you, Jody. I always appreciate you reading my writing.
And I love reading it and being in touch with your life and soul :).
I love meeting these special characters through your writing. My father was a builder, but also but his own small sailboats, so I recognize the smell and feel of all that wood. Yes, being able to produce such a useful, lasting piece is a gift, but your writing has the same effect. No doubt about that, Richard.
Thank you, Elizabeth!
I stopped in mid step when I open your story and then sat down on the nearest chair to read, so captivating and essential your story is. All the heart you put into conveying both the essence of Raphael's blessed life and the sorrow of what passef along with him. But oh what joy! And what a hope to be like him and, as you so wonderfully say, be able to feel at the end of your days you were as useful and gave so much to the world as he did. Your story is a reminder to strive for that.
Thank you, Pat. I so appreciate your reaction. May we all find our purpose!
Thank you for this piece, Richard. You were lucky to meet Raphaël. Artisans who work with "les matières nobles" like wood develop a different perspective on life, work, time. The daily company of wood that they know inside out and shape into long-lasting objects gives them a certain peace of mind, it seems. I have observed it with luthiers, for example. There is something highly therapeutic in visiting the violin maker's shop in my home town and taking in that space (the age-old, oddly shaped tools, the calm, etc.). Your reflection at the end brings to mind a nice modern sonnet by Jacques Reda, called 'Le charpentier.' As he is writing, building a house of words, the poet is also watching through the window, a man working on a roof, skillfully assembling pieces of wood, and reflecting on his own trade.
Thank you, Olivier. I wish I knew more about working with "les matières nobles". (I still have a dream about building a house.) But I agree. It's like gardening, too. I will search out the Reda poem!
Ce poème s'écrit sous l'oeil d'un charpentier
Qui s'active au sommet de la maison voisine
Avec des bruits de clous, de brosse et de mortier.
Peut-être me voit-il (et la petite usine
Que font ma cigarette, un crayon, la moitié
D'une feuille où ma main hésitante dessine)
Comme un échantillon d'un étrange métier
Qu'on exerce immobile au fond de sa cuisine.
À chacun son domaine. Il faut dire pourtant
Que, du sien, mon travail n'est pas aussi distant
Qu'il peut le croire: lui, répare une toiture
Tuile à tuile, et moi mot à mot je me bâtis
Une de ces maisons légères d'écriture
Dont je sors volontiers, laissant là mes outils,
Pour aller respirer un peu dans la nature.