Jim Richie has every reason to stay home. His house, overlooking the old Roman
City of Vence in the south of France, is both picturesque and enchanting; a
monument on a hillside that speaks to the reward of hard work and
perseverance of this free-spirited, French-spreaking Canadian. But his real
trophy is his art. A sculptor, the smooth surfaces of his female torsos
scattered about his estate are an interesting counterpoint to the jagged
surface of Baou, the mountain that looms overhead.
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Like sentries, they stand
guard in the garden, on the patio, at the entrance to his home. They
symbolize a conquest of sorts, not of the flesh, but of the spirit.
Every day but Sunday, Richie arises and after performing his morning rituals of laps in the pool and picking fresh vegetables from his garden, or, when out of season, taking some from the fridge. They will be consumed raw with his lunch. He then
gets into his car and drives down the hill, parks his car and walks to his
favorite restaurant in the square of the old city.
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There he will sit,
sometimes alone, but more often than not, holding court or watching the ebb and
flow of life in the village. In the square, between the church and the Hotel
de Ville on a circular base, stands one of Richie's sculptures, a gift from
the artist to the city. A monument.
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