In the late ‘70s, I would carry the Sony Portapak for my artist stepmother, Rabyn Blake, across muddy fields in Southern France as she filmed a shepherdess whose name sounded like “leg of lamb” in French, or shot shimmering vistas of Cézanne’s Mont Sainte-Victoire. (She had maneuvered my father into taking his sabbatical in Aix-en-Provence, I now believe, so that she could bathe in that light...








