During the Summer of 2025, I ventured to Aix-en-Provence, France, for four weeks with fourteen other students from Susquehanna University, led by Drs. Catherine Dent and Silas Zobal. During our Spring GO! Prep Course, I first contacted my to-be host mom, Isabelle, and she replied in a purely French email. It’s safe to say I was anxious due to my own fault, my own failure to learn even the most basic of French in the time leading up to the trip. Isabelle and her daughter were exceedingly patient with me and my roommate when we arrived in May, and they quickly taught us phrases to get by. It helped that our other roommate spoke fluent French. Even when our fluent roommate wasn’t home and it was just me and Isabelle, we managed to have conversations about art in broken French and an exorbitant amount of hand signals. Isabelle showed me her plaster collage pieces and old charcoal drawings and in turn, I showed her my ink sketches. “Magnifique” was used a lot. She let me borrow French art books on the artistry of French architecture and fauna and gifted me a sketchbook. This was in the first few days of living with her. From those moments on, I was no longer overwhelmed and frightened by the world around me, instead I marveled at the stunning art that I passed every day, from the architecture to the sculptures, people, and greenery.  

I absorbed my surroundings in a way I never had before. The itinerary for our trip was packed full, from visiting museums and archeological sites to swimming in the Mediterranean. So, when our odd little group of Americans had time to hike to and sketch Mt. Saint Victoire from famous French impressionist painter Paul Cezanne’s outlook, I was absolutely thrilled. It was a hot, dry day, and the sun was warm on my skin as I sat a few levels away from the others on a crumbling rock wall. I’d wanted peace and quiet to focus on the mountain that Cezanne had meticulously painted over and over in his final years. An ant crawled up my leg and across my sketchbook as I outlined the view in pencil. Our guide, Pamela, came down to check on me and was impressed by the sketch. We talked for a little while about my art and flipped through the sketch-covered pages of my journal. I was proud, and of course Pamela’s nod of approval made that pride swell. It felt like being there, in the shadow of Cezanne—an artist whose talent and skill I crave– was a tipping point in my own creative pursuits. Like Cezanne himself was peering over my shoulder as I added pastel colors to the sketch, brightening it. I wanted to paint the view, so once I was back in the States, I did. I still added my own creative flare, but I think Cezanne would appreciate the uniqueness in my portrayal of the mountain. Art is a key part of my existence, especially creating, and I’ve never had the opportunity to create in the footsteps of a renowned artist. Let alone sketch their exact muse. It inspired me; that peaceful moment between me, Cezanne’s ghost, and Mt. Saint Victoire. When we went back to our host home for the evening, my roommates and I all showed Isabelle our drawings. She called us “mini Cezannes” and we laughed and helped her set the table for dinner.  

Another instance that sticks with me occurred in the back alleys of Antibes. Our group was hot and sweaty and just passing through in search of a cheap lunch, but there was a section of one alley where ten or so people sat on stools or stone steps or stood, sketching the leaning buildings and the vegetation growing freely and abundantly. Vines of ivy and wisteria clung to the sides of buildings and crawled over stone archways. Potted plants thrived below, from ferns to succulents grown ten times the size of any I’d ever seen before. I so desperately wished to break away from our group, pull out my own journal and pens, and sketch in the quiet companionship of strangers appreciating one brief sliver of existence; to take the time to delicately carve an impression of the moment into an empty page; to breathe life into ink and be able to cherish it every time I flipped open my book. I wanted to make a snowglobe out of that moment, bring it home and marvel at the strangers’ desire to embrace the daily beauty that is so often overlooked.  

Before France, I never drew or painted in public. It felt like I was putting a target on my back, calling for attention I didn’t want. I still think about the time I was in one of the rose gardens in Aix, sketching the view in colored pencil, with the sun dappling the page through the leaves of the trees that hovered over me. Two men walked past me once, then twice. They craned their necks to see me sketch without getting too close. I smiled up at them and tilted my journal so they could see better. “It’s just the beginning,” I explained, embarrassed by the very rough under-drawing they were so aptly interested in. They seemed surprised that I spoke to them, but they smiled back and simply said “beautiful” and wished me a good day. It’s funny;: I’m least proud of that sketch and how it turned out. I don’t know whether the strangers felt obligated to compliment it, or if they were even talking about the sketch, but I still look at that drawing and feel warm and fuzzy inside.  

Art doesn’t have to be perfect or even subjectively good to foster community. I never understood that before France. I really believed that only “good” art had a place in the public sphere and that no one wanted to see anything less than perfection. Now, I’m unashamed of even my least favorite pieces. They are beautiful for—if nothing more—the fact that they are of me. That’s the biggest way France changed me. It gave me perspective and revitalized passion. Now, I long to connect with others through art. I have never, in my life, been so amazed and proud of how I thrived out of my comfort zone. It’s surreal, looking back, that the only struggles I had in Aix were derived from my own body. During our prep course for the trip, I was uncertain and wary and borderline terrified by the idea of leaving the country for the first time in 13 years. I didn’t think I would be able to function, let alone do more than what was absolutely required of me. And then we arrived and everything was so new and challenging, and I loved every second of it. I’ve grown in ways I never expected, from my independence in a completely foreign setting to my refusal to be held back by my own physical and mental ineptitudes.  

Being in France and crafting relationships with people despite glaring language barriers was an astounding experience. After returning to the States, it feels like my passion for painting and drawing has been reignited. I create for myself, but I also create for others without my work feeling like a chore, and that alone is a blessing.