I Love Paris Anytime

Just when I was beginning to feel those winter blues creeping up on me, despite a good effort on the work front, a friend rang to suggest meeting up in Paris for some serious R and R. Well, what can a girl say? Bien-sur! I wouldn't have passed up the opportunity for the patisserie in Paris and a few days indulging my love of art for all the cheap offers on Easyjet. Indeed, it was the best of all possible worlds. I was able to meet up with my darling friend, Caroline, by train - she arriving at Montparnasse from Toulouse, me at Gare du Nord from London. Our little group was complete when Carole flew in from Bristol with her two very beautiful and utterly delightful daughters.

Spending time with young people always lifts the spirits, particularly when they laugh at your jokes and don't treat you like the geriatric that you know you are not that far off becoming. Holly, who is 25, is a History of Art student at Bristol University and passionate about her subject. Rosie, a mere 21, is an art student and loving all that that entails. Their mother owns a fabulous contemporary art gallery in Clifton, which shows Caroline's eclectic work amongst others of the great and the good, including Terry Fost and Patrick Caulfield. I was the joker in the pack, with merely a desire to be an 'artist', but probably rather more of the liquid variety!

We found our 'appartement' through my good friend and Caroline's sister-in-law, Inez Sarramon, who had borrowed it on our behalf from a male friend, who is away from some months in Argentina. It was fabulous, and not just because it was in the Marais, in the 4th Arrondisement, which is one of the most prestigious addresses in Paris. It was a penthouse flat with double patio doors and balconies on three sides, looking out in every direction. To the south-east, to the blue tubes and red and white cubes of the Pompidou Centre, to the east, to the Gothic church of St Gervais, to the north east, to the grande dame of Paris, Notre Dame, lit up in remembrance of its central place in the city's history, and to the north, the blue-white, shimmering dome of Sacre Coeur. It was too muggy and misty to see Montmartre, but through the haze we could just make out the line of the Eifel Tower. Location! Location! Location, indeed!

The owner, like many artistic and cultured gay men, is a man of exquisite and cosmopolitan taste. Everywhere one looked was a feast for the eye. There is a terrace covered in terracotta pots filled with greenery which, even in winter, were luscious and thriving. Amongst them, wherever one's eye alighted, were artefacts from around the world. Heads, masks, lanterns, candleholders and sculptures were displayed in their full glory and it was so very sad that the weather prevented us from sitting out and savouring their presence, alongside the fabulous views. The youngsters, however, made the most of the exterior space in their almost hourly requirement for a nicotine fix.

Inside, the art was to die for! Having detested my mother's penchant for snazzy 50's furniture when I was growing up, chucking out lovely Victorian pieces in the process, I have never understood the collector's obsession with that period. Not now! I am totally and utterly converted, for to see it laid out in minimal style and surrounded by contemporary art and beautiful things, it was a joy to behold. Against a background of plain white walls, the elegant, simple lines of simply curved veneered furniture works perfectly with contemporary style. Hugo's collection, from his multifarious trips abroad, of amazing cosmopolitan pieces, could not possibly have been shown off to better effect. In my bedroom, there was even the most fantastic collection of black and white photographs, mainly of men, engaged in sports ranging from boxing to gymnastics. I could have died a happy woman there and then.

After dinner chez nous, [from an afternoon's food shopping indulgence, prosciutto, a morel fettucine, followed by a walnut, Roquefort and feuille de chene salad, and not one, but two, tartes aux pommes, all washed down with copious quantities of vin rouge], we were ready for bed in anticipation of some serious art observing. The next morning, it really didn't matter that the weather was grey, because in the Rodin Museum on 79 rue de Varenne, Rodin's beautiful chateau home, the natural light from the vast array of windows all around dominated the great man's life's work within. If ever a soul dominated a space, then Rodin pervaded every pore of his grand domestic interior. You could physically feel his strength of will and purpose from beyond the grave. No wonder poor little Camille Claudel, such a talented artist in her own right, was so overwhelmed. It seems to me that she was like a butterfly at the foot of a bear.

When I saw the Rodin exhibition in London, I have to confess that I was underwhelmed, despite the very great talent of his bronze founder, Alexis Rudier. We know his work so well, it is almost too prolific. We have been so saturated by images of 'The Thinker', 'The Kiss' and 'Ugolino' that we take them for granted. Mostly, we have not seen the real thing so our perception is tainted. It is the price we pay for high exposure. As a society we know more about these great men of art and their works, but we have become inured to their true value. Like music downloads, at the flick of a mouse, we can indulge our thirst for knowledge but we cannot experience the real thing. Just as a great concert gives us an insight into the personality of the performer, so the soul of an artist speaks to us through the physicality of his work. There is no substitute for the real thing.

Here, not only can we see 'The Burghers of Calais', 'The Gates of Hell' and 'The Danaid', to name but a few, in the place that he so loved and where he worked from dawn until dusk, we can also see hundreds of smaller and less well known pieces. We can see his maquettes. We can see his portraits and some of his drawings. We can walk in his garden and savour its views. In short, we can walk in the great man's steps. We can see the work of Camille Claudel too, which is beautifully and sympathetically executed and not to be underestimated. We were privileged, for currently in residence is the Rodin/Matisse exhibition. Like the Picasso/Matisse at Tate Modern, I had no idea of the relevance of a contemporaneous showing of their respective works. It is always a revelation, and this week was no exception.

Whilst Caroline favoured Rodin's drawings as far superior to the creator of 'Fauvism', I wasn't so sure. Side by side, Matisse seems much heavier handed, less sensuous [and sensual], and considerably more free with interpretation. Despite her preference, and I greatly respect her superior knowledge, I still love Matisse's drawings and would happily have them on my walls. I said to her that I felt that Matisse was a 'voyeur', looking but not touching, whereas one had the feeling that Rodin had explored every hidden nook and cranny of the models that he depicted so beautifully. This man loved women and he knew what turned them on. The sensuousness and intimacy of lovers whispers hidden sweet nothings from every sketch. He knew his power and he used it ruthlessly.

From there, after an omelette and a glass of wine, we headed to the Musee d'Orsay where, unhappily, the permanent and stunning collection of Impressionist art is temporarily housed on the ground floor whilst its permanent location is being renovated. Had I not been many times before, I would have been disappointed. Then again, maybe not, for just to see this mind-blowing collection is the highlight for me of a trip to Paris. As with the Rodin, after endless birthday cards and Athena posters, there is a danger of saturation because one feels one already knows so many of them intimately. Not so. They are alive and kicking and the biggest high this side of legal! The vibrancy, the life, the light, the colour and the narrative of these paintings is the stuff of legend. We know them because they speak to us. They tell of the lives of ordinary people, 'paysans', painters, ballet dancers, music hall girls and prostitutes, and we know them. There is Oscar Wilde, with his luminous red nose enjoying himself in the dim light of the 'Moulin Rouge', alongside the poor little flat foreheaded bronze ballet dancer, with her real tutu and cream satin ribbon, wishing for the opportunity of a new life in the 'corps de ballet'.

This is Paris. This is life. Many of the paintings depict life in other places, like Rouen, or Arles, or even Tahiti, but they belong to Paris. They are a magnificent part of the history of this great city, and we love them for it. They are its heritage, just as they are ours. Where were they when the Germans rolled in in 1940? Where did they go? What lives have they led? They speak of the resilience of this great city, for they are still here to tell us their story. I could not imagine a life without them. Like a long lost lover, every time I come here I have to run and see them. They look even more enticing in January because the world outside is so grey. And, even better, you don't have to queue to see them. There is hardly a soul around you to encroach on the pure joy of such blissful reunion. As Eurostar is full of lots of £69 special offers at present, probably because people are worried about breakdowns due to fierce weather, I would recommend you jump on a train from St Pancras International and treat yourself to the best and cheapest high in the world. I love Paris anytime, and the great advantage of January is that it's almost all yours. Go on, spoil yourself! You're worth it!