Matisse's Chapel: La Chapelle du Rosaire de Vence by Adèle Geras

This is the long, long hill leading  from the centre of Vence,  in the South of France up to the Chapelle du Rosaire which Matisse worked on very near the end of his life, between 1949 and 1951. It was built for Dominican nuns and is considered one of the world's great religious buildings.  There are easier ways to reach the Chapel, and indeed on our way back, the walk had almost no slopes at all. But from where we were in the town we could see it, up on the hill opposite which didn't look a long way at all. 

Those who know me know that I am no athlete. I am also not young. Still, I walked up that hill and felt at the end as if I'd achieved something to be proud of. I was then forbidden by my daughter from ever attempting such a climb again....I must have been very red in the face and she must have feared I'd keel right over. But I didn't....I was simply a bit out of breath for a minute or two.

 I did a quiz once where the question was: Matisse or Picasso? I've never had any hesitation in choosing Matisse and if there were only one artist allowed to me, I'd choose him, for many reasons. I love his colours. I love his subjects. I love his versatility. I love the way that when he couldn't do one kind of art, he did another. I love his longevity. Above all, I love the fact that looking at Matisse ALWAYS makes you feel happy.  And towards the end of his life, he made the Chapelle du Rosaire which is an extraordinary place. 

No one is allowed to take photos within the Chapel. I bought postcards which I've photographed to give some idea, but really, they are woefully inadequate. I have no religious faith whatsoever but readers of this blog will know that even though I'm Jewish, I am very fond indeed of cathedrals, chapels and the like. I've often wondered about this, and come to the conclusion that it's because those who do believe made these places for everyone to be calm in; to think in; to express their deepest wishes in; to mourn in; to rejoice in and for that reason they devoted to them the very best that their handiwork could devise.  And buildings on which time and care and talent have been lavished retain the resulting beauty forever. 

The work on the Chapel wasn't easy. From the guidebook I bought, I learned that someone called Father Couturier writes :"the hundreds of preparatory drawings, the endless new restarts, the anguish of sleepless nights."

There is no hint of the sleepless nights, nor of the anguish when you walk into the Chapel. It's the very embodiment of serenity. The enormous blue and yellow stained glass windows spill light on to the white floor.  The guide book says: "Each of the windows is in the form of a curtain drawn across a yellow background. On the two southern windows, the layout of the yellow and blue leaves on a green background gives a surface proportionate to the rays of light." 

Just sitting in the Chapel for a short time is restorative and truly lifts the spirits. The simplicity is striking. Everything is the opposite of ornate. There is nothing dark anywhere to be seen. The silence is healing, until another band of tourists appears and about a dozen people take their places in the pews, but even then, even with the modern phenomenon of more and more people getting to more and more places, peace and harmony  conquer all. The beauty is so present everywhere that it makes no difference whether there are crowds of tourists there or not. Tranquillity like this is undisturbable.

The black and white murals on the walls are painted on tiles measuring a foot across. You can see their vague outlines in the postcard. Matisse was too ill by that time to do the actual painting on the high walls himself, but he had a team of skilled workers who transferred his painted drawings on paper to the tiles on the wall.

The nuns were a little disconcerted at first about the depiction of Our Lady's naked breast, but in the end, they came to love  this mural too.  Those clouds, or flowers around the figures look like the sort of thing a child might easily draw and they give the mural a  quality of innocence and joy that a more detailed (or grown-up) image would never capture. 

I wish I could have photographed the door to the confessional....it's made of pinkish stone in a kind of fretwork or lace and is supremely beautiful, but there was no postcard in the shop. On the way to the shop, along a small corridor, you pass this basin attached to the wall. Matisse has decorated the wall behind it and it's a lovely thing to behold. There is a card of that, and that's why I've been able to reproduce it here. 

If you are in the area over the summer, or ever, I can only urge you to visit this place. You won't forget it.

When we came out of the Chapel, determined to find a flatter and easier way back into Vence, we turned left and saw immediately next to the Chapel, this building which is where the Dominican nuns live. It struck me what fun they must have had choosing those turquoise pots, and picking the pinkest of geraniums to go with them.  If you spend your life here, you will love and long for colour and here's a perfect way of achieving it. Those pots made me smile.  

We made it back to Vence quite easily and without any puffing and blowing on my part. Here's my favourite photo of the trip: more kinds of tomato than you can shake a stick at. I enjoy thinking of Monsieur Matisse's housekeeper bringing him a salad of some of these while he worked on the Chapelle du Rosaire. Dressed with  Provençal olive oil, a little garlic and the juice of these lemons...

Provence, My Inspiration by Carol Drinkwater

Provence. Provence-Alpes-Maritimes is my home, and it has also become my work. I never fail to remind myself how fortunate I am. When I first came here to this southern coast of France I was looking for a ‘house by the sea’. I had circumnavigated the world several times over, both as an actress and traveller, looking for this mythical house I dreamed of. Of course, I found many and some were to die for, frequently outside my price range, requiring too much work for a totally impractical woman or, for one reason or another, they were just not ‘it’, not 'the one'. I could not have said why.
Until I fell in love with a Frenchman (while filming in Australia!) and together we found an abandoned, way-too-expensive property set back from the Bay of Cannes. The Olive Farm series of books was born.

The jungle of land and ruined jumble of stones that constituted The Olive Farm (my title for this hillside property) was never to become the chill-out holiday place I had envisaged. The Olive Farm has become my destiny. It is a very unexpected shift that has taken place. I came here as a youngish actress with lots of energy and I find myself now someone who is invited to universities and schools and various other organisations to talk about olive trees, the history of the olive tree, the plight of the honeybee, the dangers of pesticides. How did this come about, I continually ask myself.

Provence, its nature, its colours, its perfumes has inspired me. Its beauty is a daily revelation to me. And I have humbly stepped to the back of the long line of artists who have been bewitched by this sunlit, fecund sea- and mountain-scape. And it never ends. Every day, there is something new. The Scarce Swallowtail butterfly, for example. A visitor to our grounds since before we came on the scene, this exquisite cream and black pollinator plays a role in my new book, The Forgotten Summer.

When I begin the writing of a new story, while I am still discovering my story, my subject, I walk the lanes, browse art books, visit galleries, go for walks on the beach. I look for images, inspiration, and frequently from the masters who have known this territory before and better than me.

                               (coincidentally when I was travelling in Morocco for The Olive Tree, I bought my      husband the same shoes in the same colour as Pablo is wearing here!)

So, because I am deep, deep in editorial notes on my new book The Forgotten Summer to be published in February 2016, let me please just share a few images with you so that you too can enjoy the source of my inspiration.

Do you know the works of the Provencal artist Paul Camille Guigou (1834 - 1871)? I found this one La Lavandière at the Musée d'Orsay in Paris.  I hope you can see the tiny portion of Roman bridge or aqueduct in the background. Apologies that the jpeg is so small, I couldn't find a larger print.

Another of Guigou's is this woman walking  a dirt track along the hilly outskirts of Marseille

Guigou's work has been one of the inspirations for the world of the grape pickers in The Forgotten Summer. The book is not set in the same period - my story is modern and post Algerian War - but the figures, the shapes of the bodies, their gestures and movements were imprinted on my mind while I was writing the harvest scenes. The heat and dust of the landscape. I feel it grinding into my teeth!

A writer whose work I return to constantly is Jean Giono. I confess that I had never heard of him when I first came to live here. I saw streets named after him and I assumed he was a politician and then I came upon The Man Who Planted Trees. If you have never read his work, please do. The tales appear simple and yet they are steeped in nature, magic and wisdom. Henry Miller said of him: 'In Giono's work what every sensitive, full-blooded individual ought to be able to recognise at once is "the song of the world"'. And that says it all really. That is the gift Provence has given me: the song of the world. 

I wake every morning to its cadences, its colours, its rhythms, its magnificence, and I know that I am alive and profoundly fortunate. I hope that The Forgotten Summer will bring a tiny sliver of all this to the page, but it won't if I don't get back to the editorial notes!

One last image to set us up for the day. Henri Matisse (1869 - 1954) was fascinated by the endless blue of the Mediterranean sea. Here is his view from a window onto the famous Promenade des Anglais in Nice. 

                                                                The Bay of Nice 1918

It makes me want to jump in the car, drive twenty minutes along the coast and find that balcony or, even better, stop my work and go for a swim in that warm, sunlit sea.

Oh, just two more from Matisse …

                                                          Interior with a Violin (1917-1918)

painted at the Beau Rivage Hotel, Nice. I can feel the harsh beat of light beyond the shutters.

and….

                                                         Painter in the Olive Grove 1922

Back to my own olive groves and my own more humble contributions these eulogies to Provence

Carol Drinkwater

www.caroldrinkwater.com

An artist's haven by Carol Drinkwater

                                                                        Miró fountain

I have been focusing quite a bit on war recently so I thought for this month’s blog I would choose a subject that is closer to home and of a lighter aspect.
A love story. This true story is set along the Côte d’Azur, the Blue Coast, but it began in the north of France in Lille.

In 1908 in the town of Hazebrouck near Lille a boy, Aimé, was born to a railway employee and his wife, Monsieur et Madame Maeght. At the outbreak of WWI, Monsieur Maeght set off for the war never to return. Worse, the family home was destroyed. Aimé, now six years old, along with his mother and three siblings, was evacuated to the Gard in the south by the Red Cross. Aimé was bright and he was passionate about art, poetry and music. After a brilliant school career, he attended art school in Nimes, but he decided he could not pursue his artistic ambitions because he had the responsibility of his family to consider. He turned instead to the printing trade and decided to study lithography. Once he had gained his engraver’s diploma, he had no difficulty finding himself a job with a printer in Cannes. He was twenty-one years old with, it is reported, “spades of charm”. He joined the choir in the church in the Suquet.

Within a year, he had met a local girl, Marguerite Devaye. She was the daughter of wealthy trades people. They married the following year. He was twenty-three. She, nineteen. In 1930, Adrien, their first son was born. Their lives were blessed. Aimé was bursting with ambition and plans. In 1932, whilst still empoyed at the same printer’s, he opened his own shop near to the famous seafront, La Croisette, and christened it Arte. He began exhibiting paintings in the window. Soon, Aimé’s print shop was also a gallery. Pierre Bonnard, who lived in the hillside village of Le Cannet overlooking Cannes, visited the gallery and requested of Aimé that he colour his lithographs.

Bonnard’s request was the turning point in Aimé Maeght’s life. A friendship between them was born. From hereon, the greatest names in modern art frequented Aimé and Marguerite’s lives.

                                                       Marguerite Maeght, Henri Matisse

When the war broke out, Aimé discreetly put his printing presses at the services of the Résistance, whose leader, Jean Moulin, opened a gallery in Nice as a cover for the underground work he was doing. In 1943, when Jean Moulin was arrested (he died from wounds inflicted by the Gestapo on a train to Germany), Bonnard begged the Maeghts to move inland. Their second son, Bernard, had been born the year before. They moved to Le Mas des Orangers, a villa outside Vence. Henri Matisse was a near neighbour. Marguerite sat for Matisse for a series of charcoal paintings.

After the Liberation, the Maeghts, encouraged by their celebrated friends, opened a gallery in Paris, the renowned Galerie Maeght. Aimé soon became one of the twentieth century’s most respected art dealers and art publishers. The Maeght lives were blessed, until tragedy struck.

In 1953 their second son, Bernard, died of leukemia. The couple were, understandably, heartbroken. Fernand Leger advised them to take a trip to America. A month after their son’s death Braque visited Aimé. Here is what Aimé wrote of that visit:
‘When Braque came to see me in Saint-Paul a month after the death of my little boy, I was in the depths of despair. He said, “Since you want to do something that goes beyond the business of art dealing, that you seem to despise, and I understand you, do something here, something without a speculative purpose, that would enable us artists to exhibit sculpture and painting in the best possible conditions of light and space. Do it, I will help you.” ’
"Create something that will live on after you…" encouraged Braque.

And the seed was sown...

Whilst in the United States, the couple visited the private art foundations of Guggenheim, Barnes and Phillips and were very impressed. Although still deep in grief they decided, upon their return, to build a property near their home to house their private art collection. At that time, they were not intending it to be open to the public. It was to be a haven for artists, writers, poets; somewhere to congregate and share their ideas. Miró and Braque in their different ways encouraged the Maeght couple to create a space where exhibitions could be held, where young, lesser known artists could also participate.

                                          A part of the Joan Miró Labyrinth. The Artwork is
                                                   La Fourche, or The Fork and the Devil

                                                    
"The night gradually rises from the hills of Provence, all the way to Miró's Fork and Devil,"              wrote André Malraux.

A beautiful pine-clad hillside outside the village of Saint-Paul de Vence is the location. The Catalan architect, Josep Lluis Sert, who had just finished designing a studio for Miró in Mallorca, was brought in to assist. However, the local prefecture refused the planning permit. It was only when the Minister of Culture, André Malraux, stepped in that the project was given the green light. Malraux, a writer himself, was a man of passion and vision.

One astounding moment during the preparations for the foundations was the discovery of a ruined chapel on the land. Marguerite saw this a good omen. The Maeght couple restored it and it has been integrated into the labyrinthine structure displaying splendid stained glass windows designed by Braque and Raoul Ubac. It is the Chapel Bernard.

The construction took four years. Artists and workmen picnicked together regularly on the site. Sadly, Braque died the year before completion.

On the 28th July 1964, the Fondation Maeght was inaugurated by André Malraux (also a former member of the French Resistance) who in his opening discourse declared, “this is not a museum”. An accurate observation:  It is indeed an indoor/outdoor structure created by the artists and architects themselves, a Mediterranean playground full of joy and colour. A marriage of art and nature. The inauguration dinner was held in the Giacometti courtyard. Ella Fitzgerald and Yves Montand were the evening's concert. The Maeghts had financed everything themselves. It is their monument to their departed son, Bernard. Today, its director is Adrien Maeght, older brother of long-deceased Bernard.

http://www.fondation-maeght.com/index.php/en/the-foundation

Earlier this week, while still waiting for editorial input on The Last Domain, I decided to give myself a treat. It is spring here, full-blown. warm and flower-filled. A day out on my own seemed long overdue, so I set off for the Fondation Maeght, situated a ten-minute walk outside the ramparts of the medieval village of Saint-Paul. It is in the final throes of celebrating its fiftieth anniversary last year.
Here follow a small selection of the photographs I took at this serene and magical place.

                                                                Giant Seed, Jean Arp

                                                         Les Renforts,  Alexander Calder

Giacometti figures in the Giacometti Courtyard

Fountaine, Pol Bury  

                                                            Personage,  Joan Miró

I want to close with an extract from a correspondence sent to Miró from Aimé Maeght:
"Yes, my dear Joan, we will create a unique work in the world that will remain in time and in minds as evidence of our civilization, that through wars, social and scientific upheavals will leave humanity one of the purest spiritual and artistic messages of all time. These are the stories I want to make visible to the generations that follow us and to show our grandchildren that in our very materialistic age the spirit remained present and very effective thanks to men like you."
29th August 1959

Marguerite Maeght died in 1977. Aimé Maeght followed her, his most loyal ally, on 5th September 1981. Both are buried in the cemetery of Saint-Paul de Vence. Chagall lies nearby.
Alongside her octogenarian father, Adrien Maeght, Aimé and Marguerite's granddaughter, Isabelle, presides over the foundation now. It remains a family affair. And, in my opinion, an inspirational love story.

www.caroldrinkwater.com