Yesterday was my birthday, and not just any old birthday. It was a big one! Too big, really, to fully comprehend. I still find myself thinking this morning, despite [or perhaps because of?] some extremely fine vintage champagne, "How the hell did this happen?" Us baby boomers, who used to air guitar our way through 'My Generation' yelling in unison,' Hope I Die Before I Get Old!', are now having to reconsider what we so earnestly wished for. Sixty is the new forty, some say, and I was very touched when my family tried to cheer me up with a frieze saying '50 + 10 = 40'. My darling twenty year old [I can't quite believe that either!] then put reality firmly back in place by saying, "I can't believe I've got a mum who's sixty!"
So, I've got some serious thinking to do. I've just finished reading Elizabeth Gilbert's much hackneyed book, 'Eat, Pray, Love', which another friend of mine has re-titled, 'Eat, Pray, Vomit'. I have to say that I rather enjoyed it and found myself cursing the fact that I didn't put pen to paper myself after trips to Lucca and Mexico, and a spell in the ashram in Pondicherri in 1986! Like Gilbert, I was 35 at the time and looking for the answers to life, the universe and everything. But, as someone once said, the art to being a writer is the ability to keep your bum on the seat and not, like my miserable efforts, to wander off for coffee and cake or a bottle of chilled white wine with friends at every available opportunity. I feel the same about Caitlin Moran's 'How To Be A Woman' and Alison Pearson's, 'I Don't Know How She Does It?' I know I can't write as well as them but, hell's bells, I could at least have bloody tried!
This year is going to be different. For one thing, my son is moving into a flat in London. I shall miss him terribly but can't help thinking goodbye to all the washing and thanks for all the fish! My daughter, the more independent of the two, is pretty well self sufficient already, needing little more than the odd word of encouragement and the occasional cheque. That just leaves me, hubby and the dog. Hubby can hop on the 6.40 pm Easyjet flight from Gatwick after a hard week at the office just as easily as the 6.50 pm from Waterloo to Salisbury. They each take exactly the same amount of time. Toulouse has always been a weekend commute city, as I know from Virgin Atlantic pilots who live in Pibrac, thirty six, I was told, at the last count. And then there are the Airbus guys who hop backwards and forwards from Bristol every weekend. I know because I often sit next to one of their number. And the dog, well, he can have his own passport too! As of January 2012, the ludicrous necessity to have one's dog checked over by a vet within twenty four hours of travel will be abolished, an impossibility from Bardies unless you drive through the night and risk killing yourself and your dog from total exhaustion! On y va! We have just taken the final plunge and put our Salisbury house on the market.
Spending a relaxing time with good friends this summer, who have taken the big leap across La Manche, has made me take stock of many things. Not one of them regrets such a move, despite it being much tougher than the idealised accounts that proliferate on Amazon. Winters are tough, bureaucracy is a nightmare and visitors are like fish [after three days....etc!]. The worst thing, I suspect, is the visceral pain of living away from one's children. I'm not very good without mine, although I am getting better at accepting that I need them rather more than they need me. My mother once telephoned my university, some 250 miles away, and asked them to send me home. I've never forgotten the embarrassment! No, I say to myself, I cannot be a helicopter mum. They have to fly. And so do I.
Life chez nous at Bardies is so very different. For one thing, opera is only on CD. For another, the only plays I can indulge in will be on television, or Radio Four. I will no longer be able to go to Intelligence Squared debates, Fabian Society events or Party Conference. I will need to cancel my RA and Tate memberships, along with the RHS, the Royal Opera and Welsh National. Glyndebourne would, of course, be a bridge too far. I couldn't possibly not come back for the excitement and anticipation of new productions [sorry about the double negative - I'm getting into French mode already!]. I will seldom hold a hard copy of the Observer, the Guardian or the Daily Telegraph in my grubby palm again. I shan't be able to lose myself in the glorious sound that is the Salisbury Cathedral Choir at Eucharist or Evensong. And I won't be able to drop in to a Monday night jam session at the Blues Bar in Kingley Street either. Girlie lunches at trendy London restaurants will be off the menu, as will raucous bi-partisan supper parties with friends of all political persuasions shouting irreverently at each other for the duration of the evening. The gym will be out the window, but to tell you the truth, it/ I was well past its sell by date anyway. In short, my life is about to be radically overhauled.
The upside will be that I shall be able to read the mountains of books that I have bought over the years because of all the time that I have spent doing all the things in the previous paragraph! I shall be able to see my bulbs in full bloom in springtime, something I always seem to miss. I will be there to ensure that my borders are properly watered in May and June so that they are at their very best in early summer and not, as is usually the case, desperately dehydrated and craving my arrival in July to revive them. I can finally have a proper 'potager', instead of my improvised wine boxes and hastily assembled 'bricolage'. I shall feast greedily on the fruits of my labours. Visits to art galleries may be few in the future, but I shall be able to paint and draw to my heart's content. I plan to visit painter and sculptor friends obsessively instead. I can/ will play the piano, albeitly to date very badly, again. And all those Beethoven and Mahler boxed sets of symphonies can finally justify their price. And Wagner, well, there's no stopping me now! No more excuses. I always said that I was saving golf and Wagner for my 60's, and the golf course is close by, at la Bastide de Serou. Peter could do with the practice too.
But, best of all, I can finally write with an uncluttered head. The three books [!] that I have on the go can be revised, re-edited, even rewritten, and my screenplay from 1996 can be removed from the filing cabinet for reappraisal. Some of my work is so outdated it is beginning to look like a period piece! It is all spread across three laptops and two filing cabinets, which tells you just how much technology and the world has moved on since 1986! Dare I even confess that I have a new idea for a novel set around Bardies? I am such a dilettante. My problem, as ever, is seeing anything through. It's about time I pulled myself, and my work, together and stopped playing around with it all like a kiddie in a sweetshop. My bum must stay on my seat, at least for three hours a day, for the foreseeable future.......and not on Facebook or Twitter, either! I'll take time out when the kids come, of course, and friends too, but in between times 'je vais travailler sans relache'.
So, watch this space! Alongside all this personal development stuff, I plan to run a few courses too. Food will, as ever, feature prominently. I may do posh B & B for selective guests via our Sawday's listing. Plans for the cookery book are taking shape, the text is already done and the photographer is booked for November. We just need to plough through a mountain of food after photographing it, which will, 'bien sur', be a real drag for all concerned! Cookery courses, with yoga or art/music, are a definite possibility, as is a hiking course to take in all our beautiful Romanesque churches with picnics along the way. We may even organise a trek over 'Le Chemin de la Liberte', the WW2 route for RAF aircrew and escapees, from St Girons, our local town, over the Pyrenees into neutral Spain. All things are possible in the best of all possible worlds.
We are therefore looking to restore the barn for larger numbers, subject to funds, which will be a project and a half. Kevin McCloud, eat your heart out! We really hope that Blues at Bardies in August 2012 will prove viable and flyers will be sent out in November to test the water. It would be so good to have a dry indoor space where we can have concerts, small gigs and the occasional 'vernissage'. And, lastly, the garden will remain a priority. The main garden is looking beautiful, thanks to much hard work by Lawrence and Pascal, but I now want to focus on building my Italian garden and my 'potager'. Inevitably, we will have to knock the little barn down first, so the mess will have to be cleared to create the space.
Perhaps writing all this down creates the focus, the resolution? It's good to plan, to visualise where you're going in life, especially as future decades are limited. Whatever people say about sixty being the new forty [tell my bones that!], it is a crossroads. We can't go back. We can only go forwards. Different people will take different paths and some people will think that I am mad for upping sticks at this stage of my life. As I have said before, the intention was to do it when the children were young and able to benefit from excellent local schooling and the French IB system, but the gods decided otherwise. Then, it was not destined to be. Now, however, I know that I have always wanted to do it, for a while at least. 'Live the dream', as they say.
And, as I look around me at the economic catastrophe that is unfolding here in the UK, I am glad that France's social model is a collective one. It may be slow, and bureaucratic, and heavily taxed, but it is undoubtedly a fairer way of life. It takes account of people who are not so lucky, or privileged, or well educated, or fit, or healthy. You are unlikely to get MRSA in a French hospital and you will probably get a choice between a glass of red, white or rose with your well prepared and nourishing meal. It still cares about the important things in life. Le 'pays' is sacrosanct. Community, family, friends, health, good food and wine, remain the stuff of life here and the wealthy do not spit in the faces of those less fortunate than themselves. In short, it is a very good place to be right now. So, as my seventh decade begins, it's a whole new world for me. Je vais profiter de ma nouvelle vie! And, if things get really tough here, you are always welcome to join me!
Sunday, 4 September 2011
Thursday, 25 August 2011
Duck Fat, Garlic, and Gout
With apologies for the crib to the wonderful cookery writer, Jeanne Strang. As ever, it's been a greedy summer chez nous. We have had a house full of delightful teenagers, such a change from the usual coterie of 'soixante huitards' in varying stages of disrepair. The only constant is the drain on my time preparing two meals a day. Teenagers require more food than fully fledged adults but their sense of wonder and appreciation for one's timely efforts more than makes up for never getting beyond Chapter 5 of any book. Like everything else during the 'holidays' [ what a great euphemism!], my writing suffers, alongside the state of my nail polish and linen shirts straight off the washing line. A blog post? No chance!
This year I seem to have been particularly slow to put fingers to keyboard. I wonder if it's age? I used to be able to cook dinner, load the dishwasher [with some help] and polish off a blog or a paragraph or two of something else before the bottle was empty and my bed loomed. Nowadays, I seem to sit and chat rather more, deliberately avoiding the temptation to hit the 'Log In' page, especially where Facebook and Twitter are concerned. The mornings are different, of course, especially when daytime temperatures have frequently soared to the high 30's. I have become a complete Twitter addict, picking up news instantaneously and clicking onto links to read opinions, blogs and newspaper articles. Most days I don't need to get Radio 4 on i-player. Instead, the world is relayed very economically to me in 140 characters a pop. 'Incroyable!'
But I digress. Here in Ariege the local diet consists of duck, duck and duck. There are restaurants nearby where every principal item on the menu has been extracted from the duck. It never ceases to amaze me just how well we all feel on a diet saturated in duck fat. I cook our potatoes in it, with garlic and rosemary, I strain it through muslin after cooking 'magret de canard' and I slow cook 'cuisses de canard' in it to store in ancient 'confit' pots left by the previous owner. Just why it appears not to clog up one's arteries and slow down one's metabolism is a mystery to me. By all accounts, the people of our little part of France have the highest longevity in a country that has the highest longevity in Europe. The correlation may be a false one, for it may all be related to bountiful fresh produce and a relaxed life free of the stresses of urban living. Either way, we all feel on top of our little world.
The most extravagant indulgence in south west France is the 'foie gras', the best of which is produced from a sterile hybrid of Barbary duck and a native breed. The serving of it is a mark of status here and French dinner guests often bring it as a gift as a token of respect. It is as essential to this area as 'cassoulet' and the 'haricot'. Who am I to refuse? The ducks are initially fed a varied diet with normal exercise for strength before they are deprived of all exercise and force fed corn to produce the enormous fat livers that we know as 'foie gras'. Many find the the use of production line force-feeders so distasteful that they, understandably, refuse to touch the stuff. The old traditional method, usually involving a little old lady on a farm in the middle of nowhere moving from one duck to another with a funnel of food, may also be equally off-putting. I am an agnostic. I generally try not to actively seek it out but, with friends involved in the 'conserverie' business, I cannot resist a small 'tranche' of 'mi-cuit' [short for 'demi-cuit', or half cooked], sprinkled lightly with a little white or black pepper and served with a glass of chilled Sauternes or Montbazillac.
Garlic is the 'yang' to duck fat's 'ying' and I seem to get through strings of the stuff. I usually buy it from old men with smoker's teeth from our weekly Saturday morning market. This August, however, I finally fulfilled a long-held dream and managed to get to the St Clar garlic festival and contest. Peter, heroically, stayed at home to look after a bevy of bikini clad girls who needed feeding and watering. The festival is held on the third Thursday in August under the picturesque 13th Century covered market stall of the fortified village of St Clar in the Gers. Luckily for me, an old, dear friend of ours conveniently lives in nearby Mauroux. The population of less than a thousand is hugely swelled by visitors from the surrounding 'departements' and summer tourists, all excited to view and sample in sundry form its famous speciality, the fragrant and strong Lomagne white garlic. For the fifth time, although not last year, presumably to avoid any question of favouritism, this year's winner accepted her treasured accolade. To be the best in one's class in any village competition in France is tantamount to being an 'A' list local celebrity [something our pathetic TV 'wannabe's' would do well to learn from]. Hard work and dedication is rewarded and the prizes hard won.
We skipped the communal 'thonade' in the square in favour of a pizza in a more peaceful location [the price of going deaf!] but returned for the partying that followed. The loudest brass band imaginable, nicknamed 'les pruneaux d'Agen', rattled it's way through lots of favourite 'sing a long' songs, culminating in a fine rendering of 'YMCA' which got everybody up from the seats and onto the dance floor ready for the disco to follow. Many of the prospective dancers looked a little unsteady on their feet, which was hardly surprising as lunch and the day's jolly festivities had moved seemlessly into the evening's shindig. The whole event was so different from the all day drinking sessions which ruin many a warm evening in the UK. Three, maybe four or even five, generations were enjoying themselves, proud of their village, proud of their families and proud of their produce. Being just a little worse for wear was a badge of honour and not a single soul was rude, aggressive or out of order. As we left, people were slowly making their way home, smiling and happy, a joy to behold indeed.
Back at my friend Jim's house in Maroux, just five kilometres away, we finished the night with a Ricard or two. All was well in the best of all possible worlds until.......you've guessed it from the title of this missive, the dreaded payback for such hedonistic excesses arrived with a vengeance some five days later. Like a bolt from the blue, the searing pain of gout indiscriminately fells the most active of men. It wasn't pastis, we knew, because Peter doesn't drink the stuff. Likewise, it certainly couldn't have been garlic, renowned for its medicinal properties, that finds its way somewhere into most meals chez nous. We had had some fairly indulgent lunches and dinners 'sous l' arbre dans le jardin'', where the wine flowed copiously and four courses, sometimes five, had become the norm. But neither of us had anticipated the consequence. Experience should have guided us but, no, we failed to spot the signs. When Peter tried to get out of bed the next morning, he nearly fell over. As anyone with gout knows, it is a shared experience. He screams in pain; I scream with frustration.
Jim, himself a sufferer, advised a course of anti-inflammatory drugs only available on prescription from a 'medecin'. We searched the 'pages jaunes'. Eventually, we found a wonderful 'medecin' in St Girons called Dr Jean-Louis Vicq, who specialises in acapuncture, as well as regular medicine. After three sessions he can now walk again, but it was a close call. Trying to get across our 'tomettes' with the aid of a pair of steel capped hiking sticks was no joke! Going on all fours proved the easier option, especially up the stairs. I was relegated to another room, which was just as well as I think that I might have jumped out the window. There is nothing you can do except get it in the neck! I love the way that conventional and alternative medicine in France are considered natural bedfellows. There is no suspicion of quackery because most practitioners are also medically trained. Thank goodness we were able to find one so easily - a couple of days on anti inflammatory drugs will unsettle the strongest of stomachs.
Anyway, at the end of it all, after Peter had trawled the internet, he tells me that it's all the fault of foie-gras [oh, and my home made liver pate!]. Apparently, there is something in liver and kidneys that activates gout. Duck fat and garlic are fine. It has nothing to do with red wine, either, of course. To which my answer is, 'If you believe that, you'll believe anything!'
This year I seem to have been particularly slow to put fingers to keyboard. I wonder if it's age? I used to be able to cook dinner, load the dishwasher [with some help] and polish off a blog or a paragraph or two of something else before the bottle was empty and my bed loomed. Nowadays, I seem to sit and chat rather more, deliberately avoiding the temptation to hit the 'Log In' page, especially where Facebook and Twitter are concerned. The mornings are different, of course, especially when daytime temperatures have frequently soared to the high 30's. I have become a complete Twitter addict, picking up news instantaneously and clicking onto links to read opinions, blogs and newspaper articles. Most days I don't need to get Radio 4 on i-player. Instead, the world is relayed very economically to me in 140 characters a pop. 'Incroyable!'
But I digress. Here in Ariege the local diet consists of duck, duck and duck. There are restaurants nearby where every principal item on the menu has been extracted from the duck. It never ceases to amaze me just how well we all feel on a diet saturated in duck fat. I cook our potatoes in it, with garlic and rosemary, I strain it through muslin after cooking 'magret de canard' and I slow cook 'cuisses de canard' in it to store in ancient 'confit' pots left by the previous owner. Just why it appears not to clog up one's arteries and slow down one's metabolism is a mystery to me. By all accounts, the people of our little part of France have the highest longevity in a country that has the highest longevity in Europe. The correlation may be a false one, for it may all be related to bountiful fresh produce and a relaxed life free of the stresses of urban living. Either way, we all feel on top of our little world.
The most extravagant indulgence in south west France is the 'foie gras', the best of which is produced from a sterile hybrid of Barbary duck and a native breed. The serving of it is a mark of status here and French dinner guests often bring it as a gift as a token of respect. It is as essential to this area as 'cassoulet' and the 'haricot'. Who am I to refuse? The ducks are initially fed a varied diet with normal exercise for strength before they are deprived of all exercise and force fed corn to produce the enormous fat livers that we know as 'foie gras'. Many find the the use of production line force-feeders so distasteful that they, understandably, refuse to touch the stuff. The old traditional method, usually involving a little old lady on a farm in the middle of nowhere moving from one duck to another with a funnel of food, may also be equally off-putting. I am an agnostic. I generally try not to actively seek it out but, with friends involved in the 'conserverie' business, I cannot resist a small 'tranche' of 'mi-cuit' [short for 'demi-cuit', or half cooked], sprinkled lightly with a little white or black pepper and served with a glass of chilled Sauternes or Montbazillac.
Garlic is the 'yang' to duck fat's 'ying' and I seem to get through strings of the stuff. I usually buy it from old men with smoker's teeth from our weekly Saturday morning market. This August, however, I finally fulfilled a long-held dream and managed to get to the St Clar garlic festival and contest. Peter, heroically, stayed at home to look after a bevy of bikini clad girls who needed feeding and watering. The festival is held on the third Thursday in August under the picturesque 13th Century covered market stall of the fortified village of St Clar in the Gers. Luckily for me, an old, dear friend of ours conveniently lives in nearby Mauroux. The population of less than a thousand is hugely swelled by visitors from the surrounding 'departements' and summer tourists, all excited to view and sample in sundry form its famous speciality, the fragrant and strong Lomagne white garlic. For the fifth time, although not last year, presumably to avoid any question of favouritism, this year's winner accepted her treasured accolade. To be the best in one's class in any village competition in France is tantamount to being an 'A' list local celebrity [something our pathetic TV 'wannabe's' would do well to learn from]. Hard work and dedication is rewarded and the prizes hard won.
We skipped the communal 'thonade' in the square in favour of a pizza in a more peaceful location [the price of going deaf!] but returned for the partying that followed. The loudest brass band imaginable, nicknamed 'les pruneaux d'Agen', rattled it's way through lots of favourite 'sing a long' songs, culminating in a fine rendering of 'YMCA' which got everybody up from the seats and onto the dance floor ready for the disco to follow. Many of the prospective dancers looked a little unsteady on their feet, which was hardly surprising as lunch and the day's jolly festivities had moved seemlessly into the evening's shindig. The whole event was so different from the all day drinking sessions which ruin many a warm evening in the UK. Three, maybe four or even five, generations were enjoying themselves, proud of their village, proud of their families and proud of their produce. Being just a little worse for wear was a badge of honour and not a single soul was rude, aggressive or out of order. As we left, people were slowly making their way home, smiling and happy, a joy to behold indeed.
Back at my friend Jim's house in Maroux, just five kilometres away, we finished the night with a Ricard or two. All was well in the best of all possible worlds until.......you've guessed it from the title of this missive, the dreaded payback for such hedonistic excesses arrived with a vengeance some five days later. Like a bolt from the blue, the searing pain of gout indiscriminately fells the most active of men. It wasn't pastis, we knew, because Peter doesn't drink the stuff. Likewise, it certainly couldn't have been garlic, renowned for its medicinal properties, that finds its way somewhere into most meals chez nous. We had had some fairly indulgent lunches and dinners 'sous l' arbre dans le jardin'', where the wine flowed copiously and four courses, sometimes five, had become the norm. But neither of us had anticipated the consequence. Experience should have guided us but, no, we failed to spot the signs. When Peter tried to get out of bed the next morning, he nearly fell over. As anyone with gout knows, it is a shared experience. He screams in pain; I scream with frustration.
Jim, himself a sufferer, advised a course of anti-inflammatory drugs only available on prescription from a 'medecin'. We searched the 'pages jaunes'. Eventually, we found a wonderful 'medecin' in St Girons called Dr Jean-Louis Vicq, who specialises in acapuncture, as well as regular medicine. After three sessions he can now walk again, but it was a close call. Trying to get across our 'tomettes' with the aid of a pair of steel capped hiking sticks was no joke! Going on all fours proved the easier option, especially up the stairs. I was relegated to another room, which was just as well as I think that I might have jumped out the window. There is nothing you can do except get it in the neck! I love the way that conventional and alternative medicine in France are considered natural bedfellows. There is no suspicion of quackery because most practitioners are also medically trained. Thank goodness we were able to find one so easily - a couple of days on anti inflammatory drugs will unsettle the strongest of stomachs.
Anyway, at the end of it all, after Peter had trawled the internet, he tells me that it's all the fault of foie-gras [oh, and my home made liver pate!]. Apparently, there is something in liver and kidneys that activates gout. Duck fat and garlic are fine. It has nothing to do with red wine, either, of course. To which my answer is, 'If you believe that, you'll believe anything!'
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
Queille Festival Fun
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......
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, 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!
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