“Midnight” by Jenn Thornhill Verma. Used with permission.
I.
It was our last night together. The last time Ziggy and Beulah would ask the nineteen of us to join them in the Chateau’s large ornate drawing room. Not for a talk, a reading, a lesson or lecture, no.
Tonight, we would be gathering to share our final thoughts.
Slowly, hesitantly, as if trying to hold off the finality of our fortnight’s joy, the lot of us trickled in and arranged ourselves in a patchy circle on velvety high-backed chairs and overstuffed couches.
Once the chatter quieted, Ziggy began by saying how much he enjoyed hosting our group, more so, he seemed to imply, than any of the groups that preceded us.
A few cynical eyebrows were raised, mine among them. As the founder and director of the Chateau Orquevaux Artist Residency, Ziggy Attias probably said the same thing at the close of every two-week session. No one could fault him for wanting the artists and writers in the room to feel extra special. Among the thousands of applications he and Beulah van Rensburg (the residency director) received, we were the people they chose. It was their job, after all, to celebrate us.
As Ziggy spoke, I glanced around at my fellow artisans. Were we, I wondered, “better” or “different”? Did we have extraordinary chemistry? Was the camaraderie we shared over the last two weeks somehow unique? More intense? Did the two directors think the art we created—the stories and poems and videos and songs and paintings and podcasts and illustrations and aquatic installations and collages and jewelry—just a little more, um, creative?
My speculations were interrupted when Ziggy swept his champagne flute-holding hand in an arc across the faces of the people I’d come to know far more intimately than I’d ever expected, and said he’d like each us to speak about our time at the residency. What, he asked, is your takeaway?
“Let’s start over here,” he said, pointing to his left.
I’d been slouching back on the couch in the right corner of the room, but as soon as I heard the first person begin to speak, I bolted upright. Put my glass of champagne (or was it gin?) on the ottoman, using one of the many art books strewn about as a coaster. “Shit,” I uttered under my breath. What on earth was I going to say?
How would I distill the last two weeks down into a few sentences?
Four more people spoke. I began to panic. FUCK. Everyone was saying such lovely heartfelt things. Someone on the back couch started to cry.
I’d been eating, dancing, drinking, talking, walking, playing and creating with these people for fifteen days. All I had to do was say I had fun, right? Right?
But I’m a writer, I thought. I needed to say something PROFOUND.
And then, suddenly, it was my turn.
II.
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful
than the risk it took to blossom.
—Anaïs Nin
In the before-times, I rarely held back from trying new experiences. I had no fear. Not of failure. Not of rejection. Not even of disappointment. Risk-taking was second nature to me.
But then 2020 rolled around and the world changed. Months into the pandemic I tumbled headlong into Illness. Then Death. Soon, I was hiding behind imagined walls. I doubted everything and everyone, particularly myself.
By the time I received my letter of acceptance into the Residency in late 2022, I was still hiding. Still asking but what if______? so often the question had become an emotional crutch. My excuse for not doing anything (other than sitting at my desk, dredging up dark plot lines).
Friends and family urged me to suck it up, buy a plane ticket and, for fuck’s sake,
GO TO FRANCE!
After many days of meditating, YouTube watching, fence-sitting and soul searching, I relented. I replied to Ziggy, saying, “Yes, I will accept your invitation. Thank you.” And then I started planning my first trip, my first adventure, my first foray out into the world, in a long long time.
III.
About a month before the May residency was to begin, the Chateau created a private Instagram message group. It took a few days for everyone to sign on, but soon we were all introducing ourselves, learning about the new Covid policies, sharing itineraries, and getting info. about the best way to ship art supplies overseas.
Naturally, I Googled every single person I was going to be living in close quarters with for two weeks. I was worried there wouldn’t be anyone I could relate to. There would be too many young people. Not enough non-Americans.
And boy oh boy, did I become a judgy bitch.
“Why were two other people from Vermont also chosen? It’s supposed to be an international residency. I don’t want to hang out with Vermonters.”
“Why is that chick with the cello so outspoken? She’s being such a queen bee.”
“The woman from Australia won’t stop complaining about having to test for Covid! Doesn’t she realize I only agreed to go because they’re requiring testing? God, I hate her already.”
“What’s with the pool noodle couple? That’s so wacky.”
“Why is that young dude not adding anything to the conversation? Who does he think he is?”
After two weeks of floating through the fray, I decided I wasn’t going. I came up with a thousand reasons why attending an overseas artist residency was the worst possible idea .
I haven’t been in a room with strangers for three years.
I don’t know how to make casual conversation anymore.
Do I even want to talk to these people?
No one will like me.
I’m not talented enough to hang out with other artists.
Surely, the food won’t be as good as it looks on all those Instagram posts.
I’ll get Covid and die.
It will suck.
I’m afraid to go.
IV.
On April 30, I flew to Paris. After spending two days at an 
Airbnb to get over jet lag, I found my way to Chateau Orquevaux, where I was promptly shown up to my room which looked out across the lake to the tiny village beyond.
It was far lovelier than I ever could have imagined.
In fact, everything about my days at the Chateau was far lovelier than I ever could have imagined.
Which was why, when it was my turn to speak, I found it impossible to say a thing.
So, I said nothing.
If I’d been given more than five minutes to speak; if I’d had fewer drams of gin flowing through my bloodstream; and if I’d perhaps felt less inhibited about speaking my heart in public, I would have said this:
To the lovely young Canadian woman, I would have said, “Thank you for your quiet kindness. I so so loved The Snail and the Chateau. It is a whimsical and beautifully-drawn tale and I hope it will someday be read by millions of children.”
To the mother half of the duo from Vermont, I would have said, “I can’t believe I was worried about hanging out with a homey. You’re amazing. I mean, you have this incredible personal history. You teach. You paint. You are always smiling. I cannot wait to see you again.”
To the woman who, on the very first night, shared with me her intimate secrets and worries, I would have said, “You are more than the sum total of your past parts. You are daring and strong and a vastly talented artist. The world is your oyster and I implore you to slurp away, making as much noise as possible as you do.”
To the young guy who looked like Harry Styles I would have said, “Hey, thanks for joining me at breakfast that first morning. Even though you mispronounced Yeats’ name, I fell head over heels in like with your youthful passion and I look forward to seeing where your charisma, your intensely good poetry and those bedroom eyes of yours take you. It was a blast hanging out, vaping, sharing secrets, and discussing writerly shit.”
To the California artist who made so much noise above me I wanted to kill her, I would have said, “Thank you for being patient with my neuroses. For turning down the sound on your computer at night. Your artwork blew my mind and I am so glad it exists. It makes the world a more beautiful place indeed. Oh, and congrats on becoming a grandmother.”
To the Australian who whined about the Covid testing, I would have said, “Thank you for sharing that sushi dinner with me in Chaumont. Even though the food was mediocre, I loved listening to your salacious stories and getting to know someone my age who is far far braver than I. Not a day goes by that I don’t admire the small print I took from your Open Studio. For someone who came to art later in life, I am beyond impressed by your talent. To be sure: you’re a force to be reckoned with.”
To the southern belle with the heart of gold, I would have said, “Sigh. Knowing you has gladdened my soul. Your powerful words shall continue to ripple, long after you’ve spoken them. I wish to know you always.”
To the cello-playing queen bee, I would have said, “You couldn’t help it: you were the brightest star in every room you walked into, even when you weren’t wearing that pink ballgown. Even when you walked in late (which was always). Thank you for the massage. For the black shirt. For the sweet sounds that floated up through my floor. For the sad moments, and for the many many laughs. Oh dear lord, the laughs. Stay in touch, please.”
To the twins who walked a million miles, I would have said, “Thank you both for the moments of grace. For the stories and the flowers. Thank you for the commiserative ankle twists and your all-around genuine goodness.”
To the Canadian journalist, artist, and lighthouse loiterer, I would have said, “Girlfriend, I need to come see you soon. I’m such a fan of your artwork. And your writing. And your uber fascinating tales about yonder icy places. You are the whole package and I’m so happy to have met you.”
To the California chick who I must have known in another life, I would have said, “Baby, you are a wonder. A magical mystery tour of a spirit like no other. You can sing with your mouth closed. You can create art with your eyes shut. Your energy fed me when I hungered. Your body danced when I needed to stay still. Forever in my heart. You. You.”
To the cutest married couple roaming this crazy planet, I would have said, “Okay, so the pool noodle/water/river art stuff is pretty darn awesome and far more metaphorically-relevant than I would have guessed. From watching the gold paint dry to the pre-dinner cocktails, the two of you made every moment we were together more delightful. More intriguing. Certainly more classy. I really hope to run into you again.”
To the curly-haired podwriter/animator/traveler, I would have said, “I’m sorry I kicked you out of the bathtub. You are very funny and one of the most delightful humans I’ve ever known. I wish you the best of luck for Season Two and for all your future wanderings. Oh, and No Dictators For Breakfast!”
To the chess-playing, prize-winning author, I would have said, “You are such a sweet man. Not a single meal spent with you was anything less than fascinating. Thank you for always listening with both ears. And for sharing your stories.”
To the Canadian wedding goddess who moved so quietly you never heard her come up behind you, I would have said, “For some reason, I never didn’t want to be near you, yet I never spent enough time with you. I kept saying I would come to your studio, but I never did, and for that I am sorry. What you produced down there in the Stables was stunning. Is there anything you cannot do? It was fun watching you make your sake drinks. Listening to your lore. There was something about your rich presence that both intimidated and fascinated me. I wish I lived closer to you.”
To my favorite, I would have said, “No, I won’t adopt you, but yes, if you die before I do I will write your obituary and I will make it very very funny. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, kiddo. Keep climbing—literally and figuratively. You are a star with a million years of light inside waiting to shine.”
To the Vermont daughter whose eyes are as bright as the precious stones that adorn her stunning creations, I would have said, “Thank you for producing my first ever (and most likely only) Instagram reel. And for making that brilliantly funny group TikTok—I don’t think I ever laughed so much. Thanks also for letting me wander in and out of your and your mom’s studio during the day; the two of you below me, lost in your separate projects, yet still connected through an enviable love.”
To the artist-in-residence who carried my suitcase up the stairs that first day, I would have said, “You know, when I first met you I thought you were a little cold. Distant. What a difference two weeks can make, ya? I mean, there we were on the last day: you were watching us pile into the van that would take us away to the train station, and I saw your tears. I felt your sadness. We were that kind of group, weren’t we? Or, maybe, you’re that kind of woman—you feel stuff, deeply. It shows in your art. I felt it in your hug goodbye. Thank you for taking such good care of us.”
To the coolest, most stylishly-dressed artistic director, I would have said, “I think every person in this room has a massive crush on you, you know. How could we not? You were so helpful, so accommodating, so supportive, so bloody PRESENT for every single resident. Your laugh is adorably infectious. Your talent infinite. Your warmth and charm and endless enthusiasm are the reasons I will tell all my artist friends to apply to this residency. Now.”
To the slightly grumpy but fiercely charitable director, 
I would have said, “You are the consummate visionary; a man willing to take risks for a goal greater than himself. Out of your own tumultuous history you have built a thing of beauty. I mean, what kind of person decides to turn an old building into a castle and then invites strangers in to share its magic? Your kind of person. Thank you for opening these hallowed doors to me. To us. I am profoundly grateful.”
V.
But I didn’t say any of those things.
Instead, I spent my allotted time making eye contact with every individual around the circle, silently thanking each and every one of them for reminding me that there’s still a deep, dazzling world beyond my own room. I thanked them for the affection—both emotional and physical (also, for not bumping into my shoulder). And then, with my eyes closed and my hands posed as if in prayer, I thanked them for helping me discover my creative spirit and self-love once again.
I will miss you all. Especially you, Dusty. x
A short synopsis:
“I’m gonna read you the card now, okay?” I said, reaching toward my desk.
Lisa Kusel 
