For the first time in I don't know how many years, Ellie finished her exams before the start of the half term break. In previous years, my guilt has always got the better of me and I have only allowed myself the odd day of musical indulgence at one of the best boutique classical music festivals around. I love music festivals but generally avoid anywhere that has a big screen and a live relay - if I can't see the whites of performers' eyes, I don't want to know. I may be a wimp but I just don't see the point otherwise. Why spend hours queueing for dirty and foul-smelling portaloos amongst legions of fellow festival goers?
Friends tell me that Verona, Salzburg and Bayreuth are marvellous, and I'm sure they are. The Puccini Festival, on the lake at Torre del Lago, is supposed to be the most relaxed, if you don't count the 'craic' at Wexford. Glyndebourne is divine, but you need a small mortgage and a lot of luck to get there. For my money, one of the best value festivals is just an hour from us near Mirepoix, at the imposing Chateau de Queille, a venue which takes one's breath away. The price is all-inclusive and for less than the price of a pair of opera tickets, you get all concerts, lunches, dinners and entertainment, as well as unlimited wine, beer and soft drinks for the duration. You can even camp for free, although if you want to stay in one of the medieval tents provided, there is a supplement.
It was started twelve years ago by Nico and Rachel Lethbridge and the seventh festival, Q7 to people in the know, has just ended. It is a huge credit to Rachel and her industrious team that they have continued to provide sublime music, amazing vittals and a huge sense of joy despite Nico's untimely death four years ago. He is sorely missed but his memory lives on with the Queille Festival. As each year passes, it gets better and better and this year's festival was definitely the best. Rachel herself has now assumed the role of Artistic Director, and it shows. It is an amazing achievement and I urge anyone with a love of classical music and a sense of fun to watch out for the next one [see: www. queillefestival.net].
I drove to Beziers, and then alongside the bank of the beautiful Canal du Midi on one of the prettiest airport access roads imaginable, to pick Ellie up from the tiny Cap d'Agde airport. Ryanair flies there, exceedingly cheaply, from Bristol. Most other fares had been hugely inflated by the half term exodus and Ryanair, love them or hate them, pretty well always deliver what's on the tin. Cheapskate they may be, but their use of tiny, out of the way airports means that airport parking is a doddle, and with only one plane arriving every few hours, there are no immigration or luggage queues to get hot under the collar over.
In less than two hours of glorious early summer Languedoc sunshine, we were in the Hotel du Commerce in Mirepoix to shower en route. Some things in life remain constant, no matter how many years pass by, and this little, old fashioned Logis, with its shady restaurant garden, remains one of them. Madame greeted us with her customary 'acceuil' and it was nice to be back. My old bones are just a teeny bit creaky these days to brave the joys of camping, which is a shame, because much of the fun at the Queille Festival takes place around the campfire at night, after the more formal events have ended. My daughter had no such qualms, eventually sharing a tent with her German cousins because her incompetent mother had managed to forget the pegs and tent poles for hers.
We all assembled at 7pm, for drinks outside the ancient Romanesque chapel of Saint Sylvain et les Sept Freres Martyrs, which sits below the high wall of the equally ancient Chateau de Queille. Old friends and new exchanged pleasantries in anticipation of the weekend of heaven on earth ahead of them. There are many 'old timers' in our midst, and we share a common bond from the previous six festivals, as well as the ghosts of those now missing from our number. I am taken aback by how much they live on in their now grown up children. Where have the years gone, I wonder?
The first concert was ambitious and set the standard for the two days to come. Two quartets, the stunning Badke and the Ristov, together with the cellist, William Amherst, the double bass and baroque bass player, Carina Cosgrave and the harpsichordist, Stephen Dagg, performed a delightful programme of 17th C and 18th C music. Mozart's Divertimenti in F major, K 138 was followed by Corelli's Christmas Concerto, the Concerto Grosso in G minor Op 6 No.8 and the seldom heard Concerto No. 5 in F minor by Count Wilhelm Van Wassenaer. It was a revelation that an reticent amateur Dutch aristocrat had composed a series of works of such exceptional quality but, modestly, refused to allow them to be attributed to him. He was the very antithesis of our modern celebrity. The concert closed, to rapturous applause, with the ever popular Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 in G major.
After delicious canapes and chilled wines, we reconvened for something completely different. I have to declare an interest here, for the 'Gold Rush' was performed by my sister-in-law and my three talented nieces, who had completely re-scored Charlie Chaplin's phenomenal 1925 masterpiece. 'Lily and Co', with Julia at the piano leading her unique take on the silent Chaplin film rolling above her, was accompanied by her girls, including Lily, the youngest, with violins, flute, percussion and sundry sound effects. The film itself is a piece of social history, Chaplin's favourite, and it's almost impossible to believe that the icy Alaskan tundra, which was the backdrop of the massive rush for gold in the early years of the 20th century, was created in a studio with flour and icing sugar.
The famous boot scene, perfected after sixty one takes, caused Chaplin to suffer an insulin overdose because the boot was made of liquorice. As Julia rendered the closing bars of 'Climb Every Mountain', we all whooped with jubilation, a fitting end to a glorious first evening. Sadly, the Chaplin Society have deemed that, from now on, only Chaplin's own score can be used to accompany 'Gold Rush', or indeed any other Chaplin film, so this was the very last performance. It is their loss and the estate of Buster Keaton's gain. Roll on 2013.
A blazing Saturday morning saw two concerts with the Badke and Ristov Quartets and the talented young pianist, Simon Crawford-Phillips. The contrast between Mendelssohn's Octet in E Flat Op. 20 and Shostakovich's Piano Qintet in G minor Op. 57, at first sight, couldn't have been greater. According to Mendelssohn's sister, Fanny, the G minor scherzo was inspired by lines from the 'Walpurgis Night Dream' from Goethe's 'Faust':
"Clouds and mist pass
It grows bright above.
Air in the bushes
And wind in the reeds
And all is dispersed."
During the stunning Shostakovich, I couldn't help thinking of life in Stalin's Russia at the time of the first performance of the quintet at the Moscow Conservatory on 23rd November 1940. The witty finale, it seemed to me, could have been written with Goethe's prophetic words in mind. They were bleak times indeed, but Shostakovich manages a wry smile of hope at the end of it all.
A champagne picnic lunch, after an appetite stimulating hike through the 'campagne', was accompanied by more music from Julia and the cousins, this time playing a heady mixture of Irish, folk, country and Klezmer music. The views were stunning and the array of local pates and cheeses, not to mention rustic breads, a would-be dieter's nightmare. Thank goodness the trees provided a respite from the brilliant sunshine for a quick forty winks before the need to soldier back to base for the second concert of the day.
Schumann's Frauenliebe und Leben Op. 42 was sung beautifully by the South African soprano, Pumeza Matshikiza, with the acclaimed pianist, Julius Drake, accompanying. A change of musical direction followed, with haunting renditions of Fernando Obrador's 'Canciones Clasicas Espanolas' and Xavier Montsalvatge's 'Cinco Canciones Negras' before a short break before the third, and final, concert of the day. The contrast couldn't have been greater, for VOCES8 led us on a magical musical journey through their amazingly eclectic repertoire of classic and contemporary pieces scanning five centuries. From Palestrina and Bach to 'Jailhouse Rock' and songs from the great American songbook, we were treated to yet another hour of joyous music making.
The evening finished pleasurably with a delicious BBQ feast in the Big Top and a wild night of whacky music, led by the brilliant Baghdaddies with their blistering brass, Balkan rhythms and rousing harmonies. Being a lightweight, especially after too much sunshine and champagne at lunchtime, I skipped off back to the Hotel du Commerce to sleep, perchance to dream.
Sunday began with the obligatory Queille Festival mass [not really obligatory, of course, but 'de rigeur' for all us lovers of the sung mass], led by the inspiring Reverend Dr John Munns, with a small part of the service in French in deference to our surroundings. This year VOCES8 sang the Byrd Four Part Mass and it was truly glorious. As the sun shone against a brilliant azure sky outside the high Romanesque chapel windows, I thought to myself that just for a moment, all is well with the world. These brief interludes in life are precious indeed and to savour one like this is a privilege.
A little later, we were treated to a virtuoso performance by Simon Crawford-Phillips of Chopin Nocturnes Op. 55 Nos. 1 and 2 and Janacek's deeply moving 'On An Overgrown Path' Bk 1. As Janacek himself wrote, "All in all, there is suffering beyond words contained here." When we had picked ourselves up, Simon was joined by the Ristov Quartet for Mozart's Piano Quintet in G minor, K 478.
A leisurely lovely salmon and salads lunch in the meadow, washed down with refreshing glasses of Domaine Gayda rose, had us all scrambling for the shade again. The weather could not have been better and we have been blessed this year. We all remember the occasional downpours of previous years. Afterwards, replete and happy, we head back up the steps to the chapel for the final concert of the classical part of the festival.
The charming French clarinetist, Nicolas Baldeyrou, together with the Badke Quartet, performed an exquisite rendering of Brahms' Clarinet Quintet Op. 115 in B minor and, in his second piece of the concert, was joined by Simon Crawford-Philllips at the piano for Debussy's 'Premiere Rhapsody', both of which I loved. I had not heard the latter piece before and was struck by just how 'modern' it is. Finally, the gorgeous Pumeza Matshikiza returned [in a stunning black and white Amanda Wakeley gown], accompanied by Simon and Nicolas, to sing Schubert's 'Der Hirt auf dem Felsen' D 965, 'The Shepherd on the Rock', scored for voice and piano and an obligato clarinet. They did not disappoint; it was sublime. The concert ended gracefully with Pumeza and the Badke Quartet in a performance of Schubert's Marion anthem, 'Salve Regina' in A D 676. It was a fitting 'Adieu' indeed.
Sadly, for personal reasons, I had to miss the Grand Finale in the Big Top, an event which is legendary. This year's theme was 'One Thousand Nights and One Night', and people seemed to have been planning their outfits for weeks. I had retrieved a stunning pink silk sari from the back of my wardrobe, together with some pink sequined Indian slippers, which probably would have made me look like an overgrown pomegranate, but it was not to be. C'est la vie. Acrobats from Le Cirque la Cabriole and music from VOCES8 and The Baghdaddies set the scene and, by all accounts, it was a very late night to remember......like the festival itself. By 10am the following morning, I was pinned into my Easyjet flight, en route to a wet and windy Gatwick. Sadly, there was no magic carpet for me. Roll on 2013 when the magic will continue......
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
Wednesday, 18 May 2011
Buying for the Biblioteque at Bardies
Funnily enough, I am not usually one for compulsive buying. I read this week that a national survey has discovered that, on average, men spend £25 per week on such 'must have' purchases, compared with the average woman's paltry £19. My guess is that electronic 'gismos' whack up the male average, whereas us poor females indulge our lacklustre lives with lacy fripperies from the lingerie department, age defying 'maquillage' and exotically fragranced candles to raise our spirits after a particularly gruelling day. For better or worse, I've always been happy with Marks and Spencer's multi-packs and a jug of flowers from the garden!
But that was before Amazon! I have to confess to a massive addiction to Amazon's second hand book service. The knack is to try to ascertain the condition of the book that you want and see how many you can buy for less than a euro/pound. You do then, of course, have to factor in the £2.75 postage. For hardback books, there are unlimited bargains to be had, all at a fraction of their original RRP's. Having some years ago decided to build a library of French books at Bardies [rather more about the French, than in French, I have to say], it's rather nice to have a collection of books that have been read at least once. Guests feel less intimidated about borrowing them, although I do draw the line at leaving them down by the pool or left abandoned, baking on a chair in the heat of the midday sun.
My interest in the Cathars began some sixteen years ago, when we bought our first house near Mirepoix. It had been a Cathar castle and there was an old medieval forge in the grounds, as well as a beautiful Romanesque chapel. As a history graduate, I had always known that history is written by the victors but the story of the Cathars became, for a little while, an obsession. Books on the subject were few and far between then. Yves Roquette's seminal book, 'Cathars', Zoe Oldenburg's ' Massacre at Montsegur', [the first populist account of the Cathars in the English language, translated by classical scholar, Peter Green] and Emmanuele Roy Ladurie's story of 'Montaillou' were about it. I hoovered them up and went on pilgrimages to every single Cathar castle in the region, buying guide books along the way whenever and wherever I could. We had some fine picnics at places with enticing names, like Roquefixade, Peyrpeteuse and Queribus.
When we moved west, to Bardies, it took a few years to turn what is now the 'biblioteque' from an earth floored woodshed [with two tree trunks holding up the bedroom floor above!] into a stunning faux Louis Quatorze room, with a run of ceiling height bookshelves covering a whole wall. Just about the time that the building work was completed, Amazon took off. It has to be the best internet shopping site ever, n'est-ce-pas! Ten years earlier, assembling a relevant library would have been a lifetime's work. Now, with 'one click', your fingers do the work and your bank manager takes a deep intake of breath.
I started, inevitably, with history books: Carlisle's 'History of the French Revolution' was an early purchase, a Folio edition no less, and William Doyle's 1990 classic, 'The Oxford History of the French Revolution', followed by Georges Lefebvre's 'The French Revolution' [Routledge Classics] and Christopher Hibbert's marvellous 2001 book, also, unoriginally, called 'The French Revolution'. I found Simon Schama's 'Citizens' [2004] and the first of Jonathan Sumption's books on the Hundred Years War, 'Trial by Battle' [1999] in a charity shop. I paid a bit more for Ruth Scurr's 'Fatal Purity: Robespierre and the French Revolution' [2007] and Jonathan Sumption's 1999 history, 'The Albigensian Crusade'. Then I bit the bullet and bought the second and third books in the Sumption trilogy, 'Trial by Fire' [2001] and 'Divided Houses' [2009], new from Amazon. I haven't read either yet but the others I loved.
Then, like a drug addict moving up a notch for an even bigger hit, I graduated to biographies: Christopher Hibbert's 'Napoleon: His Wives and Women', Nancy Mitford's 'The Sun King' and 'Madame de Pompadour', both found in charity shops, Antonia Frazer's wonderful 'Marie Antoinette', as well as her 'Love and Louis X1V: The Women in the Life of the Sun King', David Lawday's 'Danton, A Life' [2009], Leonie Frieda's 'Catherine de Medici' [2004], and all of Graham Robb's scholarly reads' 'Baudelaire' [1989], 'Balzac' [1995], 'Victor Hugo' [1998] and 'Rimbaud' [2001.
Amazon has a lot to answer for, for my addiction knows no bounds. Other all time favourite reads accumulated on the biblioteque shelves are Caroline Moorehead's, 'Dancing to the Precipice', Montaigne's 'Essays', Hilary Mantel's, 'A Place of Greater Safety', Graham Robb's, 'The Discovery of France' and 'Parisians', Adam Zamoyski's '1812: Napoleon's Fatal March on Moscow', Marcel Proust's, 'A la Recherche du Temps Perdu', everything by Irene Nemirovsky but especially 'Suite Francaise' and, of course, Baroness Orzcy's 'The Scarlet Pimpernel', my favourite read as a young girl and through which I discovered my love of history.
There are loads more. There are lots of books on people's new lives in France, some good, most tedious, the novels of Flaubert and Zola and their contemporaries, travel books, art books [long on Picasso!], garden books, books on the prehistoric caves, books on the villages of France, books on wine, cognac and, because no collection of mine could exist without them, books on food. The French cookery library is my pride and joy [and possibly the ruin of me!]. From Larousse to Elisabeth David and Gerard Depardieu, and Richard Olney and Trish Deseine to the blogger, Clothilde Dusoulier, there is, I think, something to inspire everyone to put on their apron and have a go in the kitchen.
And, finally, there is music to listen to and movies to put your feet up to on a rainy day: Jaques Brel, Serge Gainsbourg, Piaf, Billie Holliday, Georges Brassens, Stefan Grapelli, Django, Francoise Hardy and, God forbid, even the First Lady's humble efforts. It was too easy to buy them all with one click! Then, as if these two addictions weren't enough, 'World Cinema' sales on Amazon proved even more irresistible. I now have to hover by the postbox to squirrel my purchases furtively away before I am seen with the evidence. Not wishing to incriminate myself any further, this blog has become, conveniently, too long already to name them all here. Having become an addict of the French crime thriller, 'Spiral', on BBC4 on Saturday nights, I will admit to indulging in the DVD of the first two series.
When, oh when, will this compulsion end? With apologies to Dr Johnson, 'The man[or woman!] who tires of Amazon, tires of life.' Who needs a new frock when you can curl up in bed with a great book?
But that was before Amazon! I have to confess to a massive addiction to Amazon's second hand book service. The knack is to try to ascertain the condition of the book that you want and see how many you can buy for less than a euro/pound. You do then, of course, have to factor in the £2.75 postage. For hardback books, there are unlimited bargains to be had, all at a fraction of their original RRP's. Having some years ago decided to build a library of French books at Bardies [rather more about the French, than in French, I have to say], it's rather nice to have a collection of books that have been read at least once. Guests feel less intimidated about borrowing them, although I do draw the line at leaving them down by the pool or left abandoned, baking on a chair in the heat of the midday sun.
My interest in the Cathars began some sixteen years ago, when we bought our first house near Mirepoix. It had been a Cathar castle and there was an old medieval forge in the grounds, as well as a beautiful Romanesque chapel. As a history graduate, I had always known that history is written by the victors but the story of the Cathars became, for a little while, an obsession. Books on the subject were few and far between then. Yves Roquette's seminal book, 'Cathars', Zoe Oldenburg's ' Massacre at Montsegur', [the first populist account of the Cathars in the English language, translated by classical scholar, Peter Green] and Emmanuele Roy Ladurie's story of 'Montaillou' were about it. I hoovered them up and went on pilgrimages to every single Cathar castle in the region, buying guide books along the way whenever and wherever I could. We had some fine picnics at places with enticing names, like Roquefixade, Peyrpeteuse and Queribus.
When we moved west, to Bardies, it took a few years to turn what is now the 'biblioteque' from an earth floored woodshed [with two tree trunks holding up the bedroom floor above!] into a stunning faux Louis Quatorze room, with a run of ceiling height bookshelves covering a whole wall. Just about the time that the building work was completed, Amazon took off. It has to be the best internet shopping site ever, n'est-ce-pas! Ten years earlier, assembling a relevant library would have been a lifetime's work. Now, with 'one click', your fingers do the work and your bank manager takes a deep intake of breath.
I started, inevitably, with history books: Carlisle's 'History of the French Revolution' was an early purchase, a Folio edition no less, and William Doyle's 1990 classic, 'The Oxford History of the French Revolution', followed by Georges Lefebvre's 'The French Revolution' [Routledge Classics] and Christopher Hibbert's marvellous 2001 book, also, unoriginally, called 'The French Revolution'. I found Simon Schama's 'Citizens' [2004] and the first of Jonathan Sumption's books on the Hundred Years War, 'Trial by Battle' [1999] in a charity shop. I paid a bit more for Ruth Scurr's 'Fatal Purity: Robespierre and the French Revolution' [2007] and Jonathan Sumption's 1999 history, 'The Albigensian Crusade'. Then I bit the bullet and bought the second and third books in the Sumption trilogy, 'Trial by Fire' [2001] and 'Divided Houses' [2009], new from Amazon. I haven't read either yet but the others I loved.
Then, like a drug addict moving up a notch for an even bigger hit, I graduated to biographies: Christopher Hibbert's 'Napoleon: His Wives and Women', Nancy Mitford's 'The Sun King' and 'Madame de Pompadour', both found in charity shops, Antonia Frazer's wonderful 'Marie Antoinette', as well as her 'Love and Louis X1V: The Women in the Life of the Sun King', David Lawday's 'Danton, A Life' [2009], Leonie Frieda's 'Catherine de Medici' [2004], and all of Graham Robb's scholarly reads' 'Baudelaire' [1989], 'Balzac' [1995], 'Victor Hugo' [1998] and 'Rimbaud' [2001.
Amazon has a lot to answer for, for my addiction knows no bounds. Other all time favourite reads accumulated on the biblioteque shelves are Caroline Moorehead's, 'Dancing to the Precipice', Montaigne's 'Essays', Hilary Mantel's, 'A Place of Greater Safety', Graham Robb's, 'The Discovery of France' and 'Parisians', Adam Zamoyski's '1812: Napoleon's Fatal March on Moscow', Marcel Proust's, 'A la Recherche du Temps Perdu', everything by Irene Nemirovsky but especially 'Suite Francaise' and, of course, Baroness Orzcy's 'The Scarlet Pimpernel', my favourite read as a young girl and through which I discovered my love of history.
There are loads more. There are lots of books on people's new lives in France, some good, most tedious, the novels of Flaubert and Zola and their contemporaries, travel books, art books [long on Picasso!], garden books, books on the prehistoric caves, books on the villages of France, books on wine, cognac and, because no collection of mine could exist without them, books on food. The French cookery library is my pride and joy [and possibly the ruin of me!]. From Larousse to Elisabeth David and Gerard Depardieu, and Richard Olney and Trish Deseine to the blogger, Clothilde Dusoulier, there is, I think, something to inspire everyone to put on their apron and have a go in the kitchen.
And, finally, there is music to listen to and movies to put your feet up to on a rainy day: Jaques Brel, Serge Gainsbourg, Piaf, Billie Holliday, Georges Brassens, Stefan Grapelli, Django, Francoise Hardy and, God forbid, even the First Lady's humble efforts. It was too easy to buy them all with one click! Then, as if these two addictions weren't enough, 'World Cinema' sales on Amazon proved even more irresistible. I now have to hover by the postbox to squirrel my purchases furtively away before I am seen with the evidence. Not wishing to incriminate myself any further, this blog has become, conveniently, too long already to name them all here. Having become an addict of the French crime thriller, 'Spiral', on BBC4 on Saturday nights, I will admit to indulging in the DVD of the first two series.
When, oh when, will this compulsion end? With apologies to Dr Johnson, 'The man[or woman!] who tires of Amazon, tires of life.' Who needs a new frock when you can curl up in bed with a great book?
Friday, 29 April 2011
Vice and Virtue in Albi
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.
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.
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!
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