On a glorious Spring morning in April, Caroline and I decided to meet up in the historic and monumental town of Albi, in the Tarn 'departement' just fifty miles north east of Toulouse. From Bardies it is an easy journey, less than two hours if you can avoid the early morning rush hour on the 'peripherique'. We had set our hearts on a long, leisurely, 'girly' lunch al fresco and a trip to the Musee Toulouse-Lautrec, which is housed in the stunning 14th century 'Palais de la Berbie'. This is not, as we had wrongly surmised, an old Berber Palace abandoned after the Moorish invasions but the Occitan nomenaclature for a Bishop's Palace ['Bisbia']. We were blessed. There were few tourists and parking adjacent to the Cathedrale de Sainte-Cecile was easy.
Albi in the sunshine gives no hint of its darker days. History is full of fascinating paradoxes and the location of the bulk of the work of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec [1864-1901] here is one of them. The legacy of that acute observer of the 'demi-monde', who lived life to the full and was never afraid to show it, now rests 'in memoriam' in the midst of one of the greatest medieval edifices ever created to demonstrate the power and pomp of the prelates who lived here. If ever there was a building designed to incur the shock and awe of the cowering and unwashed masses, then this is it. You really do feel like an insignificant speck of cosmic dust when you gaze up at the skyline from the shadows of the cobbled courtyard so far below. The sheer, unadulterated, brutal power of the church surrounds and seeks to obliterate you.
For this palace, begun in the late 13th century, like the fortress cathedral next to it, was designed to say 'never again' to those who dared to question existing doctrine and authority. The full might of the Catholic and apostolic church was to remain supreme in the wake of the testing challenges of the humble Cathars, whose beliefs in gnostic dualism directly challenged Roman dogma . Rome called on its most powerful warriors, led by the brutal Englishman, Simon de Montfort [1160- 1218], to exterminate the Albigensians, so named because Pope Innocent II believed that Albi was the centre of the heresy. After the sack of Beziers in 1209, when every man, woman and child was killed in the belief that 'God will know his own', until his death in 1218, he inculcated fear and loathing throughout the Languedoc.
Alongside these brutal campaigns, Papal Ordinances were passed which imposed new penalties for heresy. The monk Dominic Guzman [1170-1221] aka Saint Dominic [1234], a friend of de Montfort, was instrumental in the setting up of the Inquisition. Catharism was doomed. New methods of torture and new crimes were created. In 1233 Pope Gregory IX charged the Dominican Inquisition with the final solution, the absolute eradication of the Cathar faith. The origins of the modern police state were conceived in the war against the Albigensians [aka Cathars]. Here in Albi today we see its manifestation. I can think of no other House of God which so resembles a fortress and no other Bishop's Palace which so resembles a police headquarters. There is no power but Rome.
On a beautiful day like today though, with its pink bricked facade and Baldaquin dappled in sunshine, it's hard to think of such darkness, especially sitting in a nearby restaurant eating 'souris d'agneau' with a glass of Gaillac rose. I came to Albi with friends in 1989 but remember little, except for the cathedral and the pink brick and tiles of the Renaissance town houses in the the tiny maze of medieval streets that surround it. The merchants of Albi, I read, made their money from the cultivation of 'Isatis Tinctoria', a dark blue dye which we call 'woad'. Albi was the centre of this thriving trade. It is bigger and brighter than I remember, due I am sure, to a spate of municipal facelifts. It is undoubtedly one of the most perfect places in the Languedoc in which to spend a lazy day.
After lunch, we head to see the Lautrecs. I am beside myself with excitement, after my recent trip to Paris. I had not thought of myself as a great fan of his work but somehow he has got to me, 'de la coeur'. I suppose that one of the reasons for my hitherto indifference was the ubiquity of his poster images. He must have kept legions of printers in profit for well over a century and such familiarity has devalued our experience. His paintings are a revelation, now hung here in his birthplace because the directors of various Paris museums disdainfully rejected his parents' generous offer of all the remaining works from his studio after his death. Paris's loss is Albi's gain. The Office de Tourisme must be rubbing its hands in glee, for the museum now houses over a thousand works and documents and has become the largest and most important public collection in the world dedicated to Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.
Edouard Vuillard's [1868- 1940] portrait of him, brightly dressed in a crimson shirt and sunflower yellow 'pantalons', with a red and white neckscarf and jaunty hat, illustrates the pathos of his life, the cheery soul in the pain racked and crippled body. In complete contrast we see his own portrait of his tall, lean and athletic father riding a stallion with a falcon ascending on his left wrist. The contrast could not be more acute. Poor pitiful Henri, with his congenitally stunted little legs, has no choice but to cower in his studio painting an exciting world to which he can but aspire. Unable to participate in most of the activities enjoyed by his peers, the young Henri immerses himself in his art. When his mother takes him to Paris in 1882 and he settles in Montmartre, he finds the two things that he can participate in, booze and sex.
In his paintings we see the sensitivity of the alcoholic. He paints the women of the decadent and theatrical life of 'fin de siecle' Paris with little sentimentality but a great deal of love, affection and admiration. We look at his paintings and we sense that he knows their pain, and occasional joy, as he knows his own. He observes them acutely but we know that he knows them as well as he knows himself. He is of them, and one of them, despite being of aristocratic stock and from a different world. From his exquisite depiction of the boredom and monotony of the women in the salon at Moulins Street to the classical mastery of 'The Milliner', we see works of great contrast.
One of my favourites is 'Doctor Tapie de Celeyran', reminiscent of German Expressionists. We know his women so well, Yvette Guilbert, La Goulou, Jane Avril, La Mome Fromage, who are named, and those who remain un-named but forever etched in our consciousness. Their lives may have seemed to be mere 'demi-monde' in 'fin de siecle' Paris but, in posterity, they have real place and presence. He has served them well. Even the men he treats with respect, although it has to be said that he has created them as two dimensional beings, in complete contrast with his women. I particularly love the bland, beige Englishman at the Moulin Rouge. The one exception, of course, is Oscar Wilde, lonely, corpulent and red faced, far away in Paris in the Musee d'Orsay.
Henri de Toulouse Lautrec died from complications due to alcoholism and syphilis on 9th September 1901, aged 36. In his own short life he documented the lives of others for posterity. They were lives of vice and virtue, not considered worthy enough in their time for the grand museums of Paris. His parents, the Comte and Comtesse de Toulouse-Lautrec, who lived lives as far removed from the 'demi-monde' as the Bishop of Albi, wished to preserve their son's work and his last wishes. With the help of Gabriel Tapie de Celeyran, their nephew and Henri's first cousin, and his friend, Maurice Joyant, the legacy was eventually secured and the exhibition galleries were created and inaugurated on 30th July 1922. Today, visitors and fans arrive every year in their thousands to see the collection. It is a good reason to visit this splendid town. But whilst you while away carefree moments amongst these paintings, drawings and prints, spare a few moments for the poor souls who believed in the simpler values of the Albigensians. Vice and virtue coexist here, but sometimes it's so very hard to decide just who were the saints and who were the sinners.
Friday, 29 April 2011
Saturday, 9 April 2011
Lost Souls And Lipstick Kisses In Paris
A long, lazy weekend in Paris is a wonderful thing, especially in springtime. We didn't hesitate for a moment about going to see our daughter perform in a couple of Dance Band gigs last weekend. It's a funny thing when roles suddenly become reversed and the geriatrics become the groupies. In Paris though, on the left bank, the over sixties and seventies still tap their feet and jive along to the great American songbook. The soixante-huitards, who listened to jazz and blues at their parents' knees, are still full of that old Parisian 'joie de vivre' and 'je ne sais quoi'. With the sunshine dappling through the trees of the Luxembourg Gardens, they made the day. The youngsters were over the moon at such appreciation. Bien fait!
Afterwards, not wanting to cramp darling daughter's style, I decided, on a whim, to leg it south to seek out the old Barriere d'Enfer, Hell's Gate. It's now called Place Denfert-Rochereau, after an unfortunate French colonel who was roundly trounced by the Prussians during the winter campaign of 1870-71. The similarity in sound is undoubtedly a little French pun on its previous existence as hell on earth. Smack in the middle of a traffic traffic island, in commemoration of this dastardly defeat, is the Lion of Belfort. It is cast in bronze with its head facing westwards, away from Prussia, by Frederic Bartholdi of New York's Statue of Liberty fame. It serves as yet another reminder that we commemorate in order to forget, as Alan Bennet reminds us in 'The History Boys'. The defeat is long forgotten, like the lost souls below.
There are two stunning neoclassical buildings on the south side of the square, one next to the beautiful 'art nouveau' railings of the Metro, designed for the World Exhibition of 1900, and the other directly opposite. They once formed part of the original tollgates to the much hated Farmer's General Wall. Crippling taxes were levied on every item being taken in or out of the City of Paris and the road south was a profitable and essential thoroughfare. It was said that one passed through these tollgates in fear of one's life. So hated were they that during the steamy weekend of 12th July 1789 most of the tollgates were destroyed, presaging the bloodshed of the revolution that was to follow. These two, though, with their beautifully carved serene Greek maidens dancing around the architrave, miraculously escaped the revenge of the rampaging and angry mobs.
The rest of the history of this Place is now below ground, thanks to 'the man who saved Paris'. Graham Robb, in his charming and illuminating book, 'Parisians, recounts how in 1774 a gaping trench along the eastern side of the Rue d'Enfer opened up and swallowed all the houses for a distance of a quarter of a mile towards Paris. The Place d'Enfer really had become the 'Mouth of Hell'. The new Inspector of Quarries, whose job it became to inspect and report on the catastrophic collapse, was called Charles-Axel Guillaumot. The day following the collapse, he descended into the trench to a depth of eighty four feet and was truly shocked by what he discovered. The streets of Paris were perched precariously on top of massive undergound 'fontis', cavities, interspersed with 'cloches' of rubble liable to collapse at any moment, left by generations of earlier miners and quarriers who knew little of excavation. Paris had devoured its own foundations.
He made it his life's work to create spacious vaults and porticos to shore up the city above. Each 'cloche' was turned into a swirling cone of elaborate stonework and hacked out tunnels were faced with inscribed limestone walls. Amazingly, he recreated the above ground street names and a numbering system to identify the location of individual houses, to match his tunnels to the streets above and the landlords who were legally responsible for all the earth below ground level. The whole history of Paris was evident from this subterranean mirror image, from the Gauls and the Romans who had dug their building stone from quarries near the Seine, to the building stone below the Rue d'Enfer which had gone to make Notre Dame, the Palais Royal and the mansions of the Marais. Everything was there, bar the people who had made the history of Paris. All that rapidly changed.
On 30th May 1780 a brewer in the Rue de la Lingerie descended into cellar and found hundreds of decomposed and decomposing bodies piled there. Apart from the shock, it explained why his water was fetid. Since the arrival of the first smallpox epidemic some ten years earlier, which had killed off a tenth of the population and most of the infants under a year old, public health had become an issue. The overflowing graveyards of the Cemetery of the Innocents, close to what is now Les Halles and almost eight feet above the Rue Saint-Denis, were a major cause for concern. Nine centuries worth of putrefaction would be transported to an ossuary that Guillamot proposed to install in his waiting underground city. "Arrete, c'est ici l'empire de la mort," he would later have inscribed, his life's work done.
After months of secret debate, a royal edict of 3rd April 1786 determined that the bodies would be transferred southwards by cart and wagon, along the cobbled streets over the Pont Notre Dame to the Barriere d'Enfer to fill Guillamot's empty spaces. It was a macabre, and hugely expensive operation, which almost bankrupted the state. The repercussions were enormous, not least because of the higher taxes that were required. The gatekeepers of the Farmer's General Wall scrutinised the incoming wagons with even greater vigour. It was said that the number of skeletons that made the journey to La Tombe-Issoire was ten times greater than the living population of Paris.
The bones were arranged in decorative banks of skulls, tibias and femurs with many carved maxims, poems and other sacred and profane epitaphs. There is equity in death here. The bones of victims of the Saint Bartholemew's Day Massacre are muddled up with those of the Catholics who killed them. Later, following the bloodshed of the Reign of Terror, they were added to by the bodies of guillotined aristocrats. Camille and Lucille Desmoulins, Danton and Robespierre later joined them. Even poor Guillamot himself finished up here, lost amongst the other souls, when his gravestone in the Cimitiere Sainte Catherine disappeared. The remaining cemeteries of Paris were excavated in 1883 and Guillamot's bones were gathered up with all the others and deposited here in this vast ossuary. He has become part of the very structure he created, in memoriam.
Today, as you stand in front of the two very understated green 'porteils' that lead down the one hundred and thirty steps to the Catacombs of Paris, you realise that so much of the city's history lies here. There is no getting away from it, it is indeed the realm of death. There are the remains of between six and seven million Parisians laid to rest in high Romantic taste across a distance of two kilometres. The bones here are anonymous relics to a great and turbulent past. In an age when we shun death and tuck it away with pleasantries such as "passing away", a walk through the Catacombs provides a jolt to reality.
This is not the case at the Cimetiere of Pere Lachaise, laid out in 1804, north east of here. There, in contrast, you can walk with angels in the bright sunlight until you find whoever it was that you came looking for. The legendary lovers, Abelard and Heloise, rest here in a grand tomb, closer in death than they ever were in life. Edith Piaf is here too, in a very unremarkable grave. Ingres and Modigliani, Corot and Delacroix, Seurat and Pissaro are here, as are Balzac, Beaumarchais and Proust. Bizet, Poulenc and Chopin are also here. But it is to one grave in particular that most of us are drawn [two, I suppose, if you are a fan of Jim Morrison of The Doors, whose body has long since been returned to California but whose gravestone remains a place of pilgrimage].
The grave of Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde is the main attraction. He was laid to rest here in 1900, after his final sad days eking out an existence in Paris in a solitary room [No 16] at the Hotel d'Alsace on the Rue des Beaux Arts. We see what he became from a painting in the Musee d'Orsay, in Toulouse Lautrec's portrayal of him as an overweight, red faced voyeur at the Moulin Rouge. As large in death as he was in life, Oscar Wilde's tomb is a fitting testament to one of our greatest writers. He lived his life as art and Jacob Epsein's carved angel celebrates the elegance of the man before his fall. It is a very early piece by Epstein and it takes your breath away. Having been to the Bourdelle Museum, at his studio in Montparnasse, I was struck for the first time by his influence on Epstein.
Bourdelle's bas reliefs must surely have provided the prototype. It matters not, for this is living art. The most remarkable thing about Epstein's tribute to Wilde, with its red angel lips, are the hundreds of lipstick kisses below. He was more loved in death than he ever was in life. 'I love you', 'Anna and Mary love you', 'Amor', 'Forever', 'Libertad Siempre' and many more messages are scribbled on the pale yellow stone in red lipstick. If I had a pound for every lipstick kiss, I would be a rich woman indeed. It is a moving, living tribute to the great man himself and it is done with love. This is not the stuff of irresponsible graffiti. 'Au contraire', it is an expression of the ultimate human manifestation of love, a kiss. Another lost soul, the writer of 'De Profundis', has finally found happiness at last under a sea of lipstick kisses. How happy I am to have seen it.
Afterwards, not wanting to cramp darling daughter's style, I decided, on a whim, to leg it south to seek out the old Barriere d'Enfer, Hell's Gate. It's now called Place Denfert-Rochereau, after an unfortunate French colonel who was roundly trounced by the Prussians during the winter campaign of 1870-71. The similarity in sound is undoubtedly a little French pun on its previous existence as hell on earth. Smack in the middle of a traffic traffic island, in commemoration of this dastardly defeat, is the Lion of Belfort. It is cast in bronze with its head facing westwards, away from Prussia, by Frederic Bartholdi of New York's Statue of Liberty fame. It serves as yet another reminder that we commemorate in order to forget, as Alan Bennet reminds us in 'The History Boys'. The defeat is long forgotten, like the lost souls below.
There are two stunning neoclassical buildings on the south side of the square, one next to the beautiful 'art nouveau' railings of the Metro, designed for the World Exhibition of 1900, and the other directly opposite. They once formed part of the original tollgates to the much hated Farmer's General Wall. Crippling taxes were levied on every item being taken in or out of the City of Paris and the road south was a profitable and essential thoroughfare. It was said that one passed through these tollgates in fear of one's life. So hated were they that during the steamy weekend of 12th July 1789 most of the tollgates were destroyed, presaging the bloodshed of the revolution that was to follow. These two, though, with their beautifully carved serene Greek maidens dancing around the architrave, miraculously escaped the revenge of the rampaging and angry mobs.
The rest of the history of this Place is now below ground, thanks to 'the man who saved Paris'. Graham Robb, in his charming and illuminating book, 'Parisians, recounts how in 1774 a gaping trench along the eastern side of the Rue d'Enfer opened up and swallowed all the houses for a distance of a quarter of a mile towards Paris. The Place d'Enfer really had become the 'Mouth of Hell'. The new Inspector of Quarries, whose job it became to inspect and report on the catastrophic collapse, was called Charles-Axel Guillaumot. The day following the collapse, he descended into the trench to a depth of eighty four feet and was truly shocked by what he discovered. The streets of Paris were perched precariously on top of massive undergound 'fontis', cavities, interspersed with 'cloches' of rubble liable to collapse at any moment, left by generations of earlier miners and quarriers who knew little of excavation. Paris had devoured its own foundations.
He made it his life's work to create spacious vaults and porticos to shore up the city above. Each 'cloche' was turned into a swirling cone of elaborate stonework and hacked out tunnels were faced with inscribed limestone walls. Amazingly, he recreated the above ground street names and a numbering system to identify the location of individual houses, to match his tunnels to the streets above and the landlords who were legally responsible for all the earth below ground level. The whole history of Paris was evident from this subterranean mirror image, from the Gauls and the Romans who had dug their building stone from quarries near the Seine, to the building stone below the Rue d'Enfer which had gone to make Notre Dame, the Palais Royal and the mansions of the Marais. Everything was there, bar the people who had made the history of Paris. All that rapidly changed.
On 30th May 1780 a brewer in the Rue de la Lingerie descended into cellar and found hundreds of decomposed and decomposing bodies piled there. Apart from the shock, it explained why his water was fetid. Since the arrival of the first smallpox epidemic some ten years earlier, which had killed off a tenth of the population and most of the infants under a year old, public health had become an issue. The overflowing graveyards of the Cemetery of the Innocents, close to what is now Les Halles and almost eight feet above the Rue Saint-Denis, were a major cause for concern. Nine centuries worth of putrefaction would be transported to an ossuary that Guillamot proposed to install in his waiting underground city. "Arrete, c'est ici l'empire de la mort," he would later have inscribed, his life's work done.
After months of secret debate, a royal edict of 3rd April 1786 determined that the bodies would be transferred southwards by cart and wagon, along the cobbled streets over the Pont Notre Dame to the Barriere d'Enfer to fill Guillamot's empty spaces. It was a macabre, and hugely expensive operation, which almost bankrupted the state. The repercussions were enormous, not least because of the higher taxes that were required. The gatekeepers of the Farmer's General Wall scrutinised the incoming wagons with even greater vigour. It was said that the number of skeletons that made the journey to La Tombe-Issoire was ten times greater than the living population of Paris.
The bones were arranged in decorative banks of skulls, tibias and femurs with many carved maxims, poems and other sacred and profane epitaphs. There is equity in death here. The bones of victims of the Saint Bartholemew's Day Massacre are muddled up with those of the Catholics who killed them. Later, following the bloodshed of the Reign of Terror, they were added to by the bodies of guillotined aristocrats. Camille and Lucille Desmoulins, Danton and Robespierre later joined them. Even poor Guillamot himself finished up here, lost amongst the other souls, when his gravestone in the Cimitiere Sainte Catherine disappeared. The remaining cemeteries of Paris were excavated in 1883 and Guillamot's bones were gathered up with all the others and deposited here in this vast ossuary. He has become part of the very structure he created, in memoriam.
Today, as you stand in front of the two very understated green 'porteils' that lead down the one hundred and thirty steps to the Catacombs of Paris, you realise that so much of the city's history lies here. There is no getting away from it, it is indeed the realm of death. There are the remains of between six and seven million Parisians laid to rest in high Romantic taste across a distance of two kilometres. The bones here are anonymous relics to a great and turbulent past. In an age when we shun death and tuck it away with pleasantries such as "passing away", a walk through the Catacombs provides a jolt to reality.
This is not the case at the Cimetiere of Pere Lachaise, laid out in 1804, north east of here. There, in contrast, you can walk with angels in the bright sunlight until you find whoever it was that you came looking for. The legendary lovers, Abelard and Heloise, rest here in a grand tomb, closer in death than they ever were in life. Edith Piaf is here too, in a very unremarkable grave. Ingres and Modigliani, Corot and Delacroix, Seurat and Pissaro are here, as are Balzac, Beaumarchais and Proust. Bizet, Poulenc and Chopin are also here. But it is to one grave in particular that most of us are drawn [two, I suppose, if you are a fan of Jim Morrison of The Doors, whose body has long since been returned to California but whose gravestone remains a place of pilgrimage].
The grave of Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde is the main attraction. He was laid to rest here in 1900, after his final sad days eking out an existence in Paris in a solitary room [No 16] at the Hotel d'Alsace on the Rue des Beaux Arts. We see what he became from a painting in the Musee d'Orsay, in Toulouse Lautrec's portrayal of him as an overweight, red faced voyeur at the Moulin Rouge. As large in death as he was in life, Oscar Wilde's tomb is a fitting testament to one of our greatest writers. He lived his life as art and Jacob Epsein's carved angel celebrates the elegance of the man before his fall. It is a very early piece by Epstein and it takes your breath away. Having been to the Bourdelle Museum, at his studio in Montparnasse, I was struck for the first time by his influence on Epstein.
Bourdelle's bas reliefs must surely have provided the prototype. It matters not, for this is living art. The most remarkable thing about Epstein's tribute to Wilde, with its red angel lips, are the hundreds of lipstick kisses below. He was more loved in death than he ever was in life. 'I love you', 'Anna and Mary love you', 'Amor', 'Forever', 'Libertad Siempre' and many more messages are scribbled on the pale yellow stone in red lipstick. If I had a pound for every lipstick kiss, I would be a rich woman indeed. It is a moving, living tribute to the great man himself and it is done with love. This is not the stuff of irresponsible graffiti. 'Au contraire', it is an expression of the ultimate human manifestation of love, a kiss. Another lost soul, the writer of 'De Profundis', has finally found happiness at last under a sea of lipstick kisses. How happy I am to have seen it.
Sunday, 20 February 2011
Marvellous Montauban
I cannot begin to count the number of times that I have hurriedly driven past Montauban, on my way to Bardies. Every time, particularly when the 'peage' is heaving with holidaymakers en route to summer sun, I think to myself, "I must stop here one day when it's quieter". Like so many places in southern France, if you don't mind the biting cold, the winter months are perfect for days out to bastides, ancient churches and museums. Another bonus is that, with the exception of the cashier and the odd security person, you are quite likely to be the only souls in the place.
So it was when my good friend Caroline and I decided to treat ourselves to a spot of lunch and an afternoon of culture at the Musee Ingres in Montauban. As it's only 53 kilometres from Toulouse, it was an easy drive up the motorway. The day was bitterly cold, all the better for having a serious 'menu du jour' after our pre-prandial walk around this small but perfectly formed pink bricked bastide. Some say that Montauban, founded in 1144, was the first bastide in southern France although I think that Mont de Marsan may have pipped them to this accolade.
It is surprisingly compact and in its tightly formed centre, almost every building is a joy to behold. The softly muted pastel coloured paintwork, on window frames and balconies, contrasted beautifully with the rose pink brick work. I am not usually an avid photo addict, generally preferring memory and context to moments artificially suspended in time, but I just couldn't resist the temptation this time. It could have been a film set or a template for a lavish coffee table book. The Pont Vieux, which took thirty years to complete and was inaugurated in 1335, survives intact with only its original fortified towers missing. It is a stunning feat of medieval engineering and spectacularly beautiful.
There is the most divine florist's shop called 'Zeste', painted in the muted French greys and greens that we usually only see on a Farrow and Ball paint chart. In sharp contrast to the dull, cold, murky grey day only the bulbs in pots, laden on metal patio tables outside, gave any hint that spring was in the air. The gorgeous patisserie opposite, with its vibrant blood orange colour interior walls, warmed the soul as well as the stomach. Even the tea shop, 'Le Gout The', proved an irresistable temptation, and all less than twenty five metres from the Musee Ingres.
The building that houses the works of Ingres and Bourdelle, both born in Montauban, is a major historical monument in its own right. It was begun by the Black Prince in 1363, when ceded to the English by the Treaty of Bretigny in 1360, but never finished because the English lost control of the town and were expelled in 1414. 'La salle du Prince Noir', the basement of the building, today contains many artefacts from Montauban's early history, including a grotesque 'banc de question', a medieval rack. During the sixteenth century, Montauban became one of four Huguenot strongholds, sustaining in 1621 a successful eighty six day siege by Louis X111, only to have its fortifications finally destroyed by Cardinal Richelieu, who entered the city on 20th August 1629. The fate of the Huguenots was not a pleasant one and many of the luckier ones finished up as emigres in Spitalfields in east London.
In a wave of Catholic reassertion, work began in 1664 on a new, majestic 'palais episcopal', which was completed in 1680. The Cathedrale de Notre Dame was erected shortly afterwards with the same purpose. It was confiscated in 1790 and bought by the 'municipalite de Montauban' as the 'hotel de ville'. A museum was created in 1820 and Ingres sent 54 works of art in 1851. Upon his death in 1867, Ingres bequeathed his famous violin and the building was renamed the Musee Ingres shortly afterwards. Today, there is also a contemporary art exhibition space, a large archaeological collection, a fabulous collection of old 'faiences' which includes eighteenth century pharmaceutical jars from the hospital and a permanent historical exhibition of local trades. You certainly get your money's worth here!
I have to confess that I have never been a huge fan of Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres [1780 -1867], despite his superb technical accomplishment. His art, to me, is the epitomy of an artist's notion of perfection , a cerebral rather than a heartfelt exercise in skill. Ingres was undoubtedly a master of the highest order, hugely influenced by his time in Italy emulating the grand masters of classicism. The historical paintings, including 'Le Songe de Ossian' and 'Jesus parmi les docteurs', are phenomenal, as are his stunning portraits, including the portrait of Madame Caroline Gonse. I particularly liked his early work, the 'Torse d'homme', painted when he was just nineteen, and his drawings but, in truth, I left slightly uninspired.
The sculptures of Emile-Antoine Bourdelle [1861 -1929] on the ground floor of the museum, however, proved to be the highlight for me, although if I could take just one piece home it would be Camille Claudel's exquisite head of a young girl. I love her work so much, racked as each piece is by emotional honesty. She is my sculptor super-hero. Bourdelle, who lived at No 34 de la rue de l'Hotel de ville just across the way, looked in his photograph as if he had just walked off the set of 'La Boheme'. "La musique, la sculpture, c'est la meme chose: le sculpteur compose avec des masses, des volumes, le musicien avec des sons,"he said. His 'buste de Beethoven' immortalises this philosophy. By his own admission, hugely influenced by Rodin, his work ranges from the grand and theatrical ['Herakles archer' and the murals for the theatre des Champs- Elysees] to the delicate and ethereal 'tete de Montaban', an exquisite piece of sculpture. I would not have missed them for the world.
As we were leaving this petite but beautifully formed town [the population is only just short of 56,000], I found myself visualising hordes of summer visitors thronging its tiny streets in August. It was beautiful in grey, so it can only be divine in full sunlight. On balance, though, I have to say that spending an afternoon devouring the contents of the Musee Ingres with no one else was a special privilege. They might have opened it just for us - it certainly felt as though this were the case. How uplifting these winter visits are proving to be. We're off to the Musee Toulouse- Lautrec in Albi next. We can't wait!
So it was when my good friend Caroline and I decided to treat ourselves to a spot of lunch and an afternoon of culture at the Musee Ingres in Montauban. As it's only 53 kilometres from Toulouse, it was an easy drive up the motorway. The day was bitterly cold, all the better for having a serious 'menu du jour' after our pre-prandial walk around this small but perfectly formed pink bricked bastide. Some say that Montauban, founded in 1144, was the first bastide in southern France although I think that Mont de Marsan may have pipped them to this accolade.
It is surprisingly compact and in its tightly formed centre, almost every building is a joy to behold. The softly muted pastel coloured paintwork, on window frames and balconies, contrasted beautifully with the rose pink brick work. I am not usually an avid photo addict, generally preferring memory and context to moments artificially suspended in time, but I just couldn't resist the temptation this time. It could have been a film set or a template for a lavish coffee table book. The Pont Vieux, which took thirty years to complete and was inaugurated in 1335, survives intact with only its original fortified towers missing. It is a stunning feat of medieval engineering and spectacularly beautiful.
There is the most divine florist's shop called 'Zeste', painted in the muted French greys and greens that we usually only see on a Farrow and Ball paint chart. In sharp contrast to the dull, cold, murky grey day only the bulbs in pots, laden on metal patio tables outside, gave any hint that spring was in the air. The gorgeous patisserie opposite, with its vibrant blood orange colour interior walls, warmed the soul as well as the stomach. Even the tea shop, 'Le Gout The', proved an irresistable temptation, and all less than twenty five metres from the Musee Ingres.
The building that houses the works of Ingres and Bourdelle, both born in Montauban, is a major historical monument in its own right. It was begun by the Black Prince in 1363, when ceded to the English by the Treaty of Bretigny in 1360, but never finished because the English lost control of the town and were expelled in 1414. 'La salle du Prince Noir', the basement of the building, today contains many artefacts from Montauban's early history, including a grotesque 'banc de question', a medieval rack. During the sixteenth century, Montauban became one of four Huguenot strongholds, sustaining in 1621 a successful eighty six day siege by Louis X111, only to have its fortifications finally destroyed by Cardinal Richelieu, who entered the city on 20th August 1629. The fate of the Huguenots was not a pleasant one and many of the luckier ones finished up as emigres in Spitalfields in east London.
In a wave of Catholic reassertion, work began in 1664 on a new, majestic 'palais episcopal', which was completed in 1680. The Cathedrale de Notre Dame was erected shortly afterwards with the same purpose. It was confiscated in 1790 and bought by the 'municipalite de Montauban' as the 'hotel de ville'. A museum was created in 1820 and Ingres sent 54 works of art in 1851. Upon his death in 1867, Ingres bequeathed his famous violin and the building was renamed the Musee Ingres shortly afterwards. Today, there is also a contemporary art exhibition space, a large archaeological collection, a fabulous collection of old 'faiences' which includes eighteenth century pharmaceutical jars from the hospital and a permanent historical exhibition of local trades. You certainly get your money's worth here!
I have to confess that I have never been a huge fan of Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres [1780 -1867], despite his superb technical accomplishment. His art, to me, is the epitomy of an artist's notion of perfection , a cerebral rather than a heartfelt exercise in skill. Ingres was undoubtedly a master of the highest order, hugely influenced by his time in Italy emulating the grand masters of classicism. The historical paintings, including 'Le Songe de Ossian' and 'Jesus parmi les docteurs', are phenomenal, as are his stunning portraits, including the portrait of Madame Caroline Gonse. I particularly liked his early work, the 'Torse d'homme', painted when he was just nineteen, and his drawings but, in truth, I left slightly uninspired.
The sculptures of Emile-Antoine Bourdelle [1861 -1929] on the ground floor of the museum, however, proved to be the highlight for me, although if I could take just one piece home it would be Camille Claudel's exquisite head of a young girl. I love her work so much, racked as each piece is by emotional honesty. She is my sculptor super-hero. Bourdelle, who lived at No 34 de la rue de l'Hotel de ville just across the way, looked in his photograph as if he had just walked off the set of 'La Boheme'. "La musique, la sculpture, c'est la meme chose: le sculpteur compose avec des masses, des volumes, le musicien avec des sons,"he said. His 'buste de Beethoven' immortalises this philosophy. By his own admission, hugely influenced by Rodin, his work ranges from the grand and theatrical ['Herakles archer' and the murals for the theatre des Champs- Elysees] to the delicate and ethereal 'tete de Montaban', an exquisite piece of sculpture. I would not have missed them for the world.
As we were leaving this petite but beautifully formed town [the population is only just short of 56,000], I found myself visualising hordes of summer visitors thronging its tiny streets in August. It was beautiful in grey, so it can only be divine in full sunlight. On balance, though, I have to say that spending an afternoon devouring the contents of the Musee Ingres with no one else was a special privilege. They might have opened it just for us - it certainly felt as though this were the case. How uplifting these winter visits are proving to be. We're off to the Musee Toulouse- Lautrec in Albi next. We can't wait!
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
Here's To The Next Ten Years!
I generally hate early January, except when there is masses of snow up in Guzet and the woodburner is burning fast and furious chez nous. I dream in vain because this year we decided, for various reasons, to have Christmas in England. It was lovely, of course, but my sense of deprivation, due in large part to the dreary, dismal, grey weather, makes me feel even more fed up. The heavy snow, which covered the whole of the UK and decimated the transport network, first stranded me in Dublin for three days with my daughter [always a joy!] and then forced me to give up all hope of getting down to Bardies in December to deliver Christmas puddings, cakes and presents. Tant pis.
For some bizarre reason I've just discovered, I forgot to blog in November, which is just as well because it would probably have been a rant about the fees charged by French banks, the hike in our 'taxe fonciere' and 'taxe d'habitation', the price of 'fioul' to replenish stocks for the central heating for winter and, inevitably, the failure of my battered old Jeep to pass its 'certificat de controle technique'. In the event, the first two I could do nothing about, the third proved not to be too bad due to my continued absence and the last, amazingly, a minor miracle because I've been given a year to put the faults right. Thank goodness, because by now my car would have been permanently grounded at Blagnac.
Enough of my ranting! There is something about January that pressages the spring to come. It remains, for me, a time of reflection, on the year past, future goals and lessons learned. I like to snuggle up, self-indulgently in the warm, and ponder my navel. It's less of an effort after Christmas because one's stomach sticks out more! When the weather is bleak, it's easier to stay indoors to think and write. The first hurdle for any aspiring writer, I always think, is to get one's bum on one's seat for at least two hours at a stretch. With fewer distractions, the creative juices begin to flow [helped greatly this year by Radio 3's incredible twelve days of 'The Genius of Mozart' - how I shall miss it tomorrow].
Even walking the dog at this time of year is less of a chore because a bit of exercise becomes a luxury rather than a necessity. 'I think, therefore I am' - was it Sartre who said that? So, in this navel gazing mode, I found myself thinking about Bardies on our tenth anniversary here. We bought it on the spot exactly ten years ago, for it was love at first sight for both of us. We were mad, I know, but neither of us has ever had a moment's regret. Our children were six and eight at the time and these last ten years, seeing our children grow there with their friends and cousins, have been the greatest joy. Home is where the heart is and my heart will always be here.
Bardies has taken a lot of love, work and dedication, not to mention money. She is a demanding mistress, always asking for more just when she's taken your last centime. If it's not rain pouring through the chateau roof, it's the potential collapse of the barn roof. Whenever one lot of broken guttering gets fixed, another section breaks apart in sympathy. We run, with buckets, to stand still! We still haven't tackled replacing the draughty windows and doors, although, to be honest, I can't bear the thought of losing the beautifully leaded glass panes in the rickety old 18th and 19th century windows. The prospect of every house looking the same to conform to well meaning regulations fills me with horror. If the answer is to stay away in deepest winter to conserve precious power, then so be it.
We have done so much over the last ten years and we plan to do so much more in the next ten too. With a fair wind, we should be able to finally restore the old barn. The preliminary work has been done by the indomitable Sean who, as ever, has done a stirling job. He is not called 'Mr Perfectionist' for nothing! It is so exciting to have a project, and this is one of many. Actually, it is the linchpin upon which most of the others depend, so watch this space! My sister-in-law in Germany once said to me how lucky I was because we had a dream - something to glue us all together and give our lives purpose. The blues festival, likewise, has become a family affair, something to cherish and be proud of when the guitars are finally hung up. The next one will definitely be in 2011, to celebrate a special anniversary in our household.
So, after ten years, it seems like we are still only just beginning. We have been so privileged to be a part of such a magical place - ten years in a history that spans centuries. Indeed, if one reflects on the pre-historic caves close by, we are a teeny part of a history that spans many millenia. How amazing is that? We are also thrilled that descendants of Louis Henry, who spent summers here when they were children, will spend some time chez nous this summer. The continuum of life is a precious thing and such a special direct connection will be one of the great joys of this year. So, here's to 2011, and the next ten years. I feel sure that the best is yet to come.
For some bizarre reason I've just discovered, I forgot to blog in November, which is just as well because it would probably have been a rant about the fees charged by French banks, the hike in our 'taxe fonciere' and 'taxe d'habitation', the price of 'fioul' to replenish stocks for the central heating for winter and, inevitably, the failure of my battered old Jeep to pass its 'certificat de controle technique'. In the event, the first two I could do nothing about, the third proved not to be too bad due to my continued absence and the last, amazingly, a minor miracle because I've been given a year to put the faults right. Thank goodness, because by now my car would have been permanently grounded at Blagnac.
Enough of my ranting! There is something about January that pressages the spring to come. It remains, for me, a time of reflection, on the year past, future goals and lessons learned. I like to snuggle up, self-indulgently in the warm, and ponder my navel. It's less of an effort after Christmas because one's stomach sticks out more! When the weather is bleak, it's easier to stay indoors to think and write. The first hurdle for any aspiring writer, I always think, is to get one's bum on one's seat for at least two hours at a stretch. With fewer distractions, the creative juices begin to flow [helped greatly this year by Radio 3's incredible twelve days of 'The Genius of Mozart' - how I shall miss it tomorrow].
Even walking the dog at this time of year is less of a chore because a bit of exercise becomes a luxury rather than a necessity. 'I think, therefore I am' - was it Sartre who said that? So, in this navel gazing mode, I found myself thinking about Bardies on our tenth anniversary here. We bought it on the spot exactly ten years ago, for it was love at first sight for both of us. We were mad, I know, but neither of us has ever had a moment's regret. Our children were six and eight at the time and these last ten years, seeing our children grow there with their friends and cousins, have been the greatest joy. Home is where the heart is and my heart will always be here.
Bardies has taken a lot of love, work and dedication, not to mention money. She is a demanding mistress, always asking for more just when she's taken your last centime. If it's not rain pouring through the chateau roof, it's the potential collapse of the barn roof. Whenever one lot of broken guttering gets fixed, another section breaks apart in sympathy. We run, with buckets, to stand still! We still haven't tackled replacing the draughty windows and doors, although, to be honest, I can't bear the thought of losing the beautifully leaded glass panes in the rickety old 18th and 19th century windows. The prospect of every house looking the same to conform to well meaning regulations fills me with horror. If the answer is to stay away in deepest winter to conserve precious power, then so be it.
We have done so much over the last ten years and we plan to do so much more in the next ten too. With a fair wind, we should be able to finally restore the old barn. The preliminary work has been done by the indomitable Sean who, as ever, has done a stirling job. He is not called 'Mr Perfectionist' for nothing! It is so exciting to have a project, and this is one of many. Actually, it is the linchpin upon which most of the others depend, so watch this space! My sister-in-law in Germany once said to me how lucky I was because we had a dream - something to glue us all together and give our lives purpose. The blues festival, likewise, has become a family affair, something to cherish and be proud of when the guitars are finally hung up. The next one will definitely be in 2011, to celebrate a special anniversary in our household.
So, after ten years, it seems like we are still only just beginning. We have been so privileged to be a part of such a magical place - ten years in a history that spans centuries. Indeed, if one reflects on the pre-historic caves close by, we are a teeny part of a history that spans many millenia. How amazing is that? We are also thrilled that descendants of Louis Henry, who spent summers here when they were children, will spend some time chez nous this summer. The continuum of life is a precious thing and such a special direct connection will be one of the great joys of this year. So, here's to 2011, and the next ten years. I feel sure that the best is yet to come.
Monday, 18 October 2010
Encore La Jeunesse Dans La Rue
Of course, I was not pleased that yet another flight from Toulouse has been cancelled. Of the five demonstrations against Nicolas Sarkozy's pension reforms, due to be put to the vote in the Senate on Wednesday, two have resulted in me having to make alternative arrangements. The call to 'bloquons l'economie' is beginning to have major consequences, with Paris's two airports, Charles de Gaulle and Orly, destined to be devoid of fuel by Tuesday and many petrol stations closed. Two friends told me that their flight home with Easyjet operated at a cruising height below the level requiring supervision by ATC. Desperate times require desperate measures, especially when the trains, too, are stopped in their tracks.
Saturday's demonstration in Toulouse was, by all accounts, a jolly and good natured affair. Indeed, in all the major cities where upwards of a million people appear to be on the march [not as many, it has to be said, as the three million reported at previous demonstrations], this particular 'rapport de force' [over the raising of the retirement age from 60 to 62, still the lowest in Europe, seems still to be light hearted. Whilst in one major poll it transpired that 65% of French people accept the demographics and the inevitability of some rise in retirement age, in another, by Ifop, it appears that a staggering 84% of 18-24 year olds are in favour of the protests. The placard saying "Strike until you retire" is not a joke at the protesters' expense, although it certainly brings a wry smile to my face.
As a stroppy student planning to read History and Politics, I was an enthusiastic supporter of the 'soixante-huitards'. We all believed we could change the world. Now nearing sixty myself, I can see the appeal of taking to the streets again, especially against a government as unpopular as that of Nicolas Sarkozy. To cast off walking sticks and zimmer frames and give one's new hip and knee joints a serious outing in pursuit of one's own self interest is temptation indeed. To walk off into the sunset of one's life, probably with more than a quarter of it left to tend one's roses and coo at one's grandchildren, with a comfortable pay-off from the state from 60 onwards, is a right that cannot be surrendered. Bugger who pays for it, though. No wonder the Germans, who already have a retirement age of 67, have shown little sympathy to either the Greeks or the French.
What I have difficulty comprehending remains the enthusiasm of the very people who will have to pay for it all, especially as France's pension deficit currently stands at 32 billion euros. Would UK students walk alongside us, I wonder, as our pensions are eroded? Both mine and my husband's dates for drawing our pensions have already been revised upwards, from 60-62 and 65-66 respectively [especially, rightly, over mine as we move forwards towards pensions equality], with not a pipsqueak from the National Union of Students. I think not. In contrast, to quote Ifop political analyst, Frederc Dabi, in France "since 1968 politicians have taken to watching the mobilisation of youngsters like one watches boiling milk."
As I have written about before, the French state, I am convinced, has a horror of it's streets, a legacy of those dark days of tumbrils and torment that have so shaped its modern democracy. It is particularly terrified, courtesy of the 68-ers, of its students and schoolchildren. For in 1968, Charles de Gaulle was almost toppled by them and forced to question the loyalty of his troops garrisoned in Baden Baden in the process. In 1986, and again in 2005, 'la jeunesse dans la rue', blockaded behind their barricades, so terrified the government once again, the power of the street prevailed and an anxious government kow-towed in the face of their fire bombs and vociferous resistance. Will we witness yet another climbdown this time?
Sarkozy talks tough but has alienated so many people, it's hard to make a judgement. The Left in France remains weakened by its electoral defeat and has failed to produce a coherent narrative. There is a sense of something important taking shape on the streets of France but no one appears quite able to define it. One of the wittier slogans sported in Paris, and there were many, said, 'Carla, we're like you. We've been screwed by Sarko too.' I am constantly amazed with the vitriol that so many French friends, who certainly never were Socialists, display towards the man that they voted for. I am inclined to think that they got the government they deserved. I am minded of my 1979 badge which said, 'Don't blame me, I voted Labour!'
There is a sense of betrayal, that somehow Sarkozy should have looked after their interests but has failed them. The revelations that his presidential campaign was boosted by illegal donations from L'Oreal heir, Lillian Bettencourt, who has also been accused of tax evasion, has left a nasty taste in their mouths. His failure to make any headway in reforming crippling employment taxes and archaic working practices has disillusioned many of his middle class supporters. One revelation over the last weeks has been that staff working for EDF and GDF have an average retirement age of 55.4 years, whilst those working for SNCF retire at 52.5 years. Those with battered private pensions can only but look on, goggle eyed, with envy.
Additionally, it has to be said, the awful spectacle of France expelling its Roma migrants in such a callous and contemptible sop to the Far Right, has denigrated France's status as a civilised nation at the heart of Europe. I have yet to hear a French friend utter anything but words of outrage at Sarkozy's appalling action in their name. Sarkozy, in his ego mania, has alienated both the Left and the Right and he has no place to go. With the next presidential election due in 2012, he will be forced to listen to his critics from all sides. Perception is everything in politics, and nowhere more so than in France.
The sense of unfairness is palpable and, with yet another demonstration planned for tomorrow, the mood may not remain as jovial as it has been up until now. It is possible that the deaths in Athens may have provided a cautionary lesson. We have not seen any barricades burning yet, and maybe we won't. But, then again, once 'la jeunesse dans la rue' decide to exercise their power, who knows where it will all lead? Sarkozy cannot afford to fail but to what lengths will he go to try to succeed? He is no Mrs Thatcher, despite his early pronouncements on economic reform, and I suspect that he knows it. As the stakes get higher each day, and with the whole of Europe watching, he knows that where France leads, others may follow.
I sense a seed change throughout Europe that hasn't been fully articulated yet. People everywhere feel that the price they have to pay for the reckless actions of others is too high. They didn't ask for this. They certainly didn't ask to have their pensions and benefits savagely cut back, nor that their children and grandchildren would be saddled with crippling debts. It has been dumped on them from a great height by the very people who are benefitting from the crisis. The bonuses due to be paid out by the banks to high performing employees have been made on the back of government lending and fiscal stimulus. It is grossly unfair. We all think so. Perhaps I will get my trainers and jogging pants on and join them after all!
Saturday's demonstration in Toulouse was, by all accounts, a jolly and good natured affair. Indeed, in all the major cities where upwards of a million people appear to be on the march [not as many, it has to be said, as the three million reported at previous demonstrations], this particular 'rapport de force' [over the raising of the retirement age from 60 to 62, still the lowest in Europe, seems still to be light hearted. Whilst in one major poll it transpired that 65% of French people accept the demographics and the inevitability of some rise in retirement age, in another, by Ifop, it appears that a staggering 84% of 18-24 year olds are in favour of the protests. The placard saying "Strike until you retire" is not a joke at the protesters' expense, although it certainly brings a wry smile to my face.
As a stroppy student planning to read History and Politics, I was an enthusiastic supporter of the 'soixante-huitards'. We all believed we could change the world. Now nearing sixty myself, I can see the appeal of taking to the streets again, especially against a government as unpopular as that of Nicolas Sarkozy. To cast off walking sticks and zimmer frames and give one's new hip and knee joints a serious outing in pursuit of one's own self interest is temptation indeed. To walk off into the sunset of one's life, probably with more than a quarter of it left to tend one's roses and coo at one's grandchildren, with a comfortable pay-off from the state from 60 onwards, is a right that cannot be surrendered. Bugger who pays for it, though. No wonder the Germans, who already have a retirement age of 67, have shown little sympathy to either the Greeks or the French.
What I have difficulty comprehending remains the enthusiasm of the very people who will have to pay for it all, especially as France's pension deficit currently stands at 32 billion euros. Would UK students walk alongside us, I wonder, as our pensions are eroded? Both mine and my husband's dates for drawing our pensions have already been revised upwards, from 60-62 and 65-66 respectively [especially, rightly, over mine as we move forwards towards pensions equality], with not a pipsqueak from the National Union of Students. I think not. In contrast, to quote Ifop political analyst, Frederc Dabi, in France "since 1968 politicians have taken to watching the mobilisation of youngsters like one watches boiling milk."
As I have written about before, the French state, I am convinced, has a horror of it's streets, a legacy of those dark days of tumbrils and torment that have so shaped its modern democracy. It is particularly terrified, courtesy of the 68-ers, of its students and schoolchildren. For in 1968, Charles de Gaulle was almost toppled by them and forced to question the loyalty of his troops garrisoned in Baden Baden in the process. In 1986, and again in 2005, 'la jeunesse dans la rue', blockaded behind their barricades, so terrified the government once again, the power of the street prevailed and an anxious government kow-towed in the face of their fire bombs and vociferous resistance. Will we witness yet another climbdown this time?
Sarkozy talks tough but has alienated so many people, it's hard to make a judgement. The Left in France remains weakened by its electoral defeat and has failed to produce a coherent narrative. There is a sense of something important taking shape on the streets of France but no one appears quite able to define it. One of the wittier slogans sported in Paris, and there were many, said, 'Carla, we're like you. We've been screwed by Sarko too.' I am constantly amazed with the vitriol that so many French friends, who certainly never were Socialists, display towards the man that they voted for. I am inclined to think that they got the government they deserved. I am minded of my 1979 badge which said, 'Don't blame me, I voted Labour!'
There is a sense of betrayal, that somehow Sarkozy should have looked after their interests but has failed them. The revelations that his presidential campaign was boosted by illegal donations from L'Oreal heir, Lillian Bettencourt, who has also been accused of tax evasion, has left a nasty taste in their mouths. His failure to make any headway in reforming crippling employment taxes and archaic working practices has disillusioned many of his middle class supporters. One revelation over the last weeks has been that staff working for EDF and GDF have an average retirement age of 55.4 years, whilst those working for SNCF retire at 52.5 years. Those with battered private pensions can only but look on, goggle eyed, with envy.
Additionally, it has to be said, the awful spectacle of France expelling its Roma migrants in such a callous and contemptible sop to the Far Right, has denigrated France's status as a civilised nation at the heart of Europe. I have yet to hear a French friend utter anything but words of outrage at Sarkozy's appalling action in their name. Sarkozy, in his ego mania, has alienated both the Left and the Right and he has no place to go. With the next presidential election due in 2012, he will be forced to listen to his critics from all sides. Perception is everything in politics, and nowhere more so than in France.
The sense of unfairness is palpable and, with yet another demonstration planned for tomorrow, the mood may not remain as jovial as it has been up until now. It is possible that the deaths in Athens may have provided a cautionary lesson. We have not seen any barricades burning yet, and maybe we won't. But, then again, once 'la jeunesse dans la rue' decide to exercise their power, who knows where it will all lead? Sarkozy cannot afford to fail but to what lengths will he go to try to succeed? He is no Mrs Thatcher, despite his early pronouncements on economic reform, and I suspect that he knows it. As the stakes get higher each day, and with the whole of Europe watching, he knows that where France leads, others may follow.
I sense a seed change throughout Europe that hasn't been fully articulated yet. People everywhere feel that the price they have to pay for the reckless actions of others is too high. They didn't ask for this. They certainly didn't ask to have their pensions and benefits savagely cut back, nor that their children and grandchildren would be saddled with crippling debts. It has been dumped on them from a great height by the very people who are benefitting from the crisis. The bonuses due to be paid out by the banks to high performing employees have been made on the back of government lending and fiscal stimulus. It is grossly unfair. We all think so. Perhaps I will get my trainers and jogging pants on and join them after all!
Friday, 8 October 2010
The Things That They Loved
I have only just got round to reading the entries in our visitor's book, and I am so thrilled by Lindsey's entry that I just had to reproduce most of it verbatim on my blog! We take so much of our peripatetic life here in the Ariege for granted, so it's a real joy to have other people remind us of those little things that are an integral part of day to day life.
So, with apologies for presenting Lindsey's elegant prose with a list, here goes......
"We are overcome.........by the house and this beautiful part of France. We particularly adored:-
the bats
the back steps from the kitchen
the livestock [cows and sheep]
the knives
the sheets
the gorgeous decor and bits and pieces and connections
the woodwork and locks
the pool and trampoline
the cosmos
cornflowers
lavender
linum
gladioli and canna flowers
the fritillarias
small blue tits
swallow tails
the source [our little waterfall]
the swallows
hoot of the owls
the redstart
nuthatch
jays
lime trees
French CD's
the pottery near Mas d'Azil
Montsegur
the outdoor games
the veg, herbs and tomatoes by the front door
having French neighbours
...................and just being here."
My sentiments entirely.
Another entry from Gordon says, so simply, "Chateau de Bardies exemplifies the grace and beauty of imperfection" - like it's chatelaine, too, I'm sure!
So, with apologies for presenting Lindsey's elegant prose with a list, here goes......
"We are overcome.........by the house and this beautiful part of France. We particularly adored:-
the bats
the back steps from the kitchen
the livestock [cows and sheep]
the knives
the sheets
the gorgeous decor and bits and pieces and connections
the woodwork and locks
the pool and trampoline
the cosmos
cornflowers
lavender
linum
gladioli and canna flowers
the fritillarias
small blue tits
swallow tails
the source [our little waterfall]
the swallows
hoot of the owls
the redstart
nuthatch
jays
lime trees
French CD's
the pottery near Mas d'Azil
Montsegur
the outdoor games
the veg, herbs and tomatoes by the front door
having French neighbours
...................and just being here."
My sentiments entirely.
Another entry from Gordon says, so simply, "Chateau de Bardies exemplifies the grace and beauty of imperfection" - like it's chatelaine, too, I'm sure!
Thursday, 7 October 2010
A Perfect Day
Today was one of those mystical, magical days that we savour and remember before the first chilly north winds herald the arrival of winter. I always tell people new to the Ariege that the best time of year to see it in its full glory is in September and October. It can still be glorious after Toussaint but by then the weather is more unpredictable. As I try to figure out the exact words to describe the shades of blue and green that dazzled my senses all day, I am lost for words.
The closest I can get is to say one word. Vincent. His late landscapes, many of them painted after his breakdown, illustrate better than any pretentious writing the sheer, unadulterated beauty of 'La France Profonde'. My soul has been restored, which is more than can be said for poor Vincent. As a starry, starry night falls, I give thanks for the joy of days like today. It is a little too chilly to lie on a blanket under the stars tonight, but their sparkling presence makes me feel, as ever, unimportant in the greater scheme of things. I wish I knew more about them - although I am reliably informed that there is now an i-phone app that will 'read' the stars in your location for you. I must remember to download it before the weather changes.
Perhaps I am a little more reflective than usual, due to the sad loss, within less than a month of each other, of two dear friends. They will be sorely missed by all of us, and especially their children. None of us truly appreciates what we have until it is taken from us. Life and death are as inevitable as night and day. As the last of the summer flowers in the new border battle with the elements, I greedily think of next year's seed crop. It is sad to see them looking so desolate, pale imitations of their former resplendent glory, but I know that in their death, there is new life to come. Who knows where John and Bill are now, but I like to think of them sailing or playing cricket in some heavenly galaxy beyond our stars.
Anyway, back to my perfect day. I awoke at 6.20am and, as it was still dark, I padded downstairs to make a cup of tea to drink as I finished my current book - 'House Music', the wonderful diaries of Oona King, elected to Parliament in 1997 for Bethnal Green and Bow, and only the second black woman in the House of Commons. Having once harboured a half-baked fantasy of standing for Parliament myself, I can only think what a lucky escape I had. It's hell on earth for a woman, with days ending long after midnight, not to mention the sexism that inevitably pervades an institution dominated by white men in suits. Her diaries are heartfelt, honest and totally candid and they made me cry when she writes of her failed fifth IVF attempt. It more than touched a nerve for me because I've been there too. Her book should be compulsory reading for all aspiring female election candidates.
I then dozed to the 'Today' programme on BBC iplayer, after I had watched the sun come up over the misty valley below my bedroom window. I still cannot quite grasp the freedom that technology brings. You can be anywhere in the world and provided you can access broadband, BBC Radio 4 will be with you. A friend indeed. I know that I have written of this before but I just wish that the older generation could be lured away from their technophobia and opened up to the limitless possibilities for communicating with family and friends and accessing information that is just a mouse click away.
Minus husband and children, with the excuse of a bender of a cough and cold though, I marvelled, yet again, at Neil MacGregor's wonderful series on Radio 4 every morning at 9.45am, 'A History of the World in a Hundred Objects'. It will go into the annals of legendary BBC cultural series, alongside Kenneth Clark's 'Civilisation' and Jacob Bronowski's 'The Ascent of Man'. Today's object was an Aboriginal bark shield, brought back from Botany Bay in 1770 with the arrival of Captain Cook's ship. It made me think of our time living in Sydney in the early eighties, when I first became aware of Aboriginal history and their notion of 'The Dreamtime'. We could learn so much from their culture about respect for the fragility of our world, but we plough on regardless, plundering resources for the great engine of capitalism.
After a bath filled with fresh lavender blossoms from the garden, with the windows wide open and a view of our hills in front of me, I indulged myself further with breakfast on the terrace. Fig bread with fig jam, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a double espresso topped up with hot milk, is about as decadent as it gets. It felt like midsummer, but without the family and guests to look after. Heaven. Only the faded blooms in the terrace pots and the newly harvested lavender bushes give the game away.
With lots of urgent jobs to do before winter, like a kid playing truant from school, I made the conscious decision to head down to the pool [now, sadly, closed for winter because the nights are too cold]. With no one to cook for, and no one to worry about, I stayed there for most of the day. I didn't even have to worry about wearing a swimsuit. I even managed half an hour's yoga practice in the late afternoon sunshine, which would have been a very strange sight for someone with a satellite image. Naked middle-aged flesh is not the least attractive but viewed in 'up dog' or 'down dog' yoga positions, it borders on the perversely pornographic.
Afterwards, I raided our two fig trees and made some jam [well, more of a compote really, because figs are sweet enough already]. Then, because I'd made the jam, I thought I'd better make some wholemeal bread to go with it, which I did, courtesy of Richard Bertinet's marvellous book on contemporary bread making, 'Dough'. Not wishing to blow my own trumpet, it is a Miles Davis moment and I am dead chuffed. It always strikes me that bread is the very essence of life, something to marvel at and celebrate at every opportunity, and that making it connects us to a life force so much bigger than ourselves. It is no coincidence that 'Eucharist' is such a celebration.
I made a chicken stock for tomorrow's pumpkin risotto, from last night's roast chicken, some chicken soup with the remaining breast meat, and chicken in sherry and tarragon with the legs for my dinner, watering the garden in between. The woodburner is made up but unneeded. I've even planned my menu for the weekend, as Peter arrives tomorrow and we have guests for dinner. The rush will begin again in the morning and today's brief respite from the maelstrom that is everyday life will be but a distant memory once again. As I finish this, I shall head off to my bed with a cup of Green and Black's hot chocolate, Alice Sebold's 'The Lovely Bones' and Radio 4 ringing out from my laptop. Then, as I turn out my bedside light and turn off my electric blanket, with the stars outside twinkling through half open shutters, I shall give thanks for a perfect day.
The closest I can get is to say one word. Vincent. His late landscapes, many of them painted after his breakdown, illustrate better than any pretentious writing the sheer, unadulterated beauty of 'La France Profonde'. My soul has been restored, which is more than can be said for poor Vincent. As a starry, starry night falls, I give thanks for the joy of days like today. It is a little too chilly to lie on a blanket under the stars tonight, but their sparkling presence makes me feel, as ever, unimportant in the greater scheme of things. I wish I knew more about them - although I am reliably informed that there is now an i-phone app that will 'read' the stars in your location for you. I must remember to download it before the weather changes.
Perhaps I am a little more reflective than usual, due to the sad loss, within less than a month of each other, of two dear friends. They will be sorely missed by all of us, and especially their children. None of us truly appreciates what we have until it is taken from us. Life and death are as inevitable as night and day. As the last of the summer flowers in the new border battle with the elements, I greedily think of next year's seed crop. It is sad to see them looking so desolate, pale imitations of their former resplendent glory, but I know that in their death, there is new life to come. Who knows where John and Bill are now, but I like to think of them sailing or playing cricket in some heavenly galaxy beyond our stars.
Anyway, back to my perfect day. I awoke at 6.20am and, as it was still dark, I padded downstairs to make a cup of tea to drink as I finished my current book - 'House Music', the wonderful diaries of Oona King, elected to Parliament in 1997 for Bethnal Green and Bow, and only the second black woman in the House of Commons. Having once harboured a half-baked fantasy of standing for Parliament myself, I can only think what a lucky escape I had. It's hell on earth for a woman, with days ending long after midnight, not to mention the sexism that inevitably pervades an institution dominated by white men in suits. Her diaries are heartfelt, honest and totally candid and they made me cry when she writes of her failed fifth IVF attempt. It more than touched a nerve for me because I've been there too. Her book should be compulsory reading for all aspiring female election candidates.
I then dozed to the 'Today' programme on BBC iplayer, after I had watched the sun come up over the misty valley below my bedroom window. I still cannot quite grasp the freedom that technology brings. You can be anywhere in the world and provided you can access broadband, BBC Radio 4 will be with you. A friend indeed. I know that I have written of this before but I just wish that the older generation could be lured away from their technophobia and opened up to the limitless possibilities for communicating with family and friends and accessing information that is just a mouse click away.
Minus husband and children, with the excuse of a bender of a cough and cold though, I marvelled, yet again, at Neil MacGregor's wonderful series on Radio 4 every morning at 9.45am, 'A History of the World in a Hundred Objects'. It will go into the annals of legendary BBC cultural series, alongside Kenneth Clark's 'Civilisation' and Jacob Bronowski's 'The Ascent of Man'. Today's object was an Aboriginal bark shield, brought back from Botany Bay in 1770 with the arrival of Captain Cook's ship. It made me think of our time living in Sydney in the early eighties, when I first became aware of Aboriginal history and their notion of 'The Dreamtime'. We could learn so much from their culture about respect for the fragility of our world, but we plough on regardless, plundering resources for the great engine of capitalism.
After a bath filled with fresh lavender blossoms from the garden, with the windows wide open and a view of our hills in front of me, I indulged myself further with breakfast on the terrace. Fig bread with fig jam, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a double espresso topped up with hot milk, is about as decadent as it gets. It felt like midsummer, but without the family and guests to look after. Heaven. Only the faded blooms in the terrace pots and the newly harvested lavender bushes give the game away.
With lots of urgent jobs to do before winter, like a kid playing truant from school, I made the conscious decision to head down to the pool [now, sadly, closed for winter because the nights are too cold]. With no one to cook for, and no one to worry about, I stayed there for most of the day. I didn't even have to worry about wearing a swimsuit. I even managed half an hour's yoga practice in the late afternoon sunshine, which would have been a very strange sight for someone with a satellite image. Naked middle-aged flesh is not the least attractive but viewed in 'up dog' or 'down dog' yoga positions, it borders on the perversely pornographic.
Afterwards, I raided our two fig trees and made some jam [well, more of a compote really, because figs are sweet enough already]. Then, because I'd made the jam, I thought I'd better make some wholemeal bread to go with it, which I did, courtesy of Richard Bertinet's marvellous book on contemporary bread making, 'Dough'. Not wishing to blow my own trumpet, it is a Miles Davis moment and I am dead chuffed. It always strikes me that bread is the very essence of life, something to marvel at and celebrate at every opportunity, and that making it connects us to a life force so much bigger than ourselves. It is no coincidence that 'Eucharist' is such a celebration.
I made a chicken stock for tomorrow's pumpkin risotto, from last night's roast chicken, some chicken soup with the remaining breast meat, and chicken in sherry and tarragon with the legs for my dinner, watering the garden in between. The woodburner is made up but unneeded. I've even planned my menu for the weekend, as Peter arrives tomorrow and we have guests for dinner. The rush will begin again in the morning and today's brief respite from the maelstrom that is everyday life will be but a distant memory once again. As I finish this, I shall head off to my bed with a cup of Green and Black's hot chocolate, Alice Sebold's 'The Lovely Bones' and Radio 4 ringing out from my laptop. Then, as I turn out my bedside light and turn off my electric blanket, with the stars outside twinkling through half open shutters, I shall give thanks for a perfect day.
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