Tag Archives: art

Paris Part 2: Musée Jacquemart-André, Le Grand Mosquée, Saint Mammes, the Seine and soggy knickers…

First of all a PS to those who subscribe by email – please click on the ‘Read on Blog’ link at the top of the email to enjoy the benefit of the formatted blog rather than the WordPress newsletter version.

Picking up where I left off in my last post, I started off slowly on day two in Paris. After a bit of unpacking and general faffing, I enjoyed a good breakfast at my hotel, the Holiday Inn, Gare de Lyon. Others might not get excited about apple compote, but I love it (especially when I haven’t had to peel and stew the apples) and it’s not something you often find on breakfast bars! Combined with creamy yoghurt dispensed from a machine by pulling on a lever – which reminded me of Mr Whippy ice cream – and topped with nuts and seeds, it was a winner.  I also enjoyed one of the best gluten-free bread rolls I’ve had in a while with some fresh figs and goat’s cheese.

It was a fine morning, and once again I set off for the Jacquemart-André Museum, this time by metro, criss-crossing my way to Miromesmil.  I arrived to find there was a queue to get in unless you had already reserved tickets. The wait time was advertised as at least an hour thanks to a once-in-thirty-year retrospective of paintings by Georges de la Tour (1593-1652), a chiaroscuro painter influenced by Caravaggio.  Thank Goodness I hadn’t slogged my way there the night before only to be turned away – no room at the inn – and refused entry.  

In just under an hour, I had a ticket in my hand and was inside. The Jacquemart-André Museum is a sumptuous Belle Époque private mansion built at the end of the 19th century by wealthy banker Edouard André and his wife society portraitist Nélie Jacquemart. They married in 1888, did not have children and were avid collectors of fine art and treasures from around the world.  The museum is described as the finest private collection of artworks in Paris – and that’s no exaggeration.  

The place is full of big name artists from across the centuries. Right at the start of the tour in the Picture Gallery are two Canaletto paintings of Venice, in Nélie’s boudoir there are paintings by Gainsborough and Reynolds, and the library walls are hung with paintings by Dutch masters including Rembrandt, Franz Hals and Van Dyck.

Paintings in Nelie’s boudoir reflected in a mirror

There are no less than three works by Tiepolo:  a fresco at the top of the double marble staircase and a ceiling painting on the roof the mansion’s dining room, the Salon de Nélie. Both were transposed from a Venetian villa. The third Tiepolo is a ceiling painting in the study, a room furnished with chairs covered with Aubusson tapestries, a Japanese lacquer writing desk and a Louis XV desk stamped by the king’s favourite cabinetmaker.

Tiepolo ceiling painting in the Salon de Nelie

Edouard and Nélie loved to entertain – the picture gallery leads into the Grand Salon where the partition walls could be lowered into the ground via a hydraulic system that converted the Picture Gallery, the Grand Salon and the adjacent Music Room (and musician’s gallery above) into a single space – catering for up to a thousand guests. You can almost hear the frou frou of opulent gowns, lace and silk, the hum of chatter and the clink of champagne flutes.  And you can picture the men retiring to the smoking room which is furnished in the ‘Oriental’ style with treasures from Persia.

Grand Salon – partition wall detail
Music Room and Gallery
Edouard Andre

To keep their entertaining space unimpeded, Nélie and Edouard departed from the norm of having a centrally situated staircase – the double marble staircase is no less magnificent, but it’s located to the side of the building. To the left of the staircase is the Winter Garden, a status symbol at the time, a place to showcase plants from around the world.

Section of the Tiepolo fresco at the top of the staircase

The Italian galleries – the Venetian and the Florentine – are crammed with treasures: 15th century sculptures, bas-reliefs and paintings by the likes of Uccello and Botticelli.  I had a little break at lunchtime and managed to get a spot in the Salon de Nélie, in the annex overlooking the courtyard.

La Vierge e L’Enfant – Botticelli
Ornate lantern in the courtyard

After lunch, I enjoyed browsing some of the 40 Georges de la Tour paintings. He focused on portraits of saints and people on the margins of society – blind musicians, beggars, old men and women, capturing them in a moment in time, his subjects imbued with grace and dignity, and often illuminated by a single candle flame or a shaft of light. I could have spent longer but it was getting towards mid-afternoon and I was due to meet friends from Oxford for drinks at 4.45pm. Time waits for no man not even Georges de la Tour, so I ran back to Miromesmil, sped-walked along the long passageways (if you want to get your steps up, travel on the Paris Metro!) connecting with the M1 line back to the Gare de Lyon. From there I dashed to the hotel to change and then, with a swipe of lippy, was back underground on my way to Châtelet where I changed line to get to Cité and to our meeting place near Notre Dame. I just made it.

It was pure chance that I overlapped with Hilary and John for one night in Paris and pure joy to see them and catch up on two year’s chat over drinks and pommes frites. To add to the fun, my niece, Georgie, a wonderful conversationalist and all-round bright spark, joined us just as the heavens opened and the wind picked up. We were sitting outdoors so we huddled under the awning but were soon rewarded with exquisite light and a double rainbow. From there, Georgie and I walked back to the Gare de Lyon and to Ground Control, a warehouse space behind the station with food stalls, bars, vintage fashion, a book stall and alive with the buzz of chatter from children, families, the lot. We drank a Hugo cocktail and tucked into a tasty and generous Greek share platter.

The next morning, Sunday, I was back at the Gare de Lyon, now my second home, and took a train out towards Fontainebleu to spend a day with Georgie, her husband Manu and the three boys. She met me at the station in Moret-Veneux with three-year-old Ralphie in tow. From there, it was a short drive to Veneux -les-Sablons, where we walked across an arched suspension bridge at the confluence of the Seine and the Loing over to the town of Saint-Mammès, which has a vibrant Sunday market with lots of local and organic produce and an entire stall devoted to goat’s cheese – heaven!

The rest of the day was spent with the family in Thomery, a wonderful spot on the Seine, known for its history of viticulture and use of walled vineyards. It’s forty-five minutes on the train from Paris but a hundred times more peaceful. No suitcases, sirens or heavy ‘circulation’! Georgie and Manu are renovating their house bit by bit – it’s full of character – and they live a very eco-oriented life.  

The long garden complete with Granny Flat (la dépendance), veggie patch, walnut trees and mown paths slopes down in the direction of the river.  It’s a bucolic idyll and the three boys – Ralphie’s twin brothers are now six – charge around the garden, their playground. So far, they are living a screen-free life (not even a TV), which I so admire, their imaginations free to roam, their attention unshackled by technology.

We all did a bit of drawing after lunch. Even I, who can’t draw a stick man, managed a decent flamingo thanks to a book that steps you through the process. A delightfully bonding family day – good for the soul – and I have bagged a spot in the dépendance for future trips. And next time I’m eager to try the walnut wine which was still at the macerating stage when I visited.

Monday, my last day in Paris, I explored Le Grand Mosquée, which is in the Latin Quarter near the Jardin des Plantes, the Botanic Garden.  It was built to honour the African, mostly Muslim, soldiers who fought in the First World War and was inaugurated in July 1926.   

Reminding me of my March trip to Malaga and visit to the Alcazaba, the Grand Mosque is built in the Hispano-Moorish style with the familiar arches, decorative tiles, Arabic calligraphy, intricate geometric patterns, Mahgrebin carved cedar wood and lush courtyard garden with fountains. It’s wonderfully peaceful, a place for quiet contemplation and, unlike the museums, not crowded. I was flagging by lunchtime – jetlag maybe – so rather than have lunch at the mosque’s café, where you can get a full meal – tajines, couscous etc., – or mint tea and Arabic sweet treats, I decided to visit the ladies only hammam (steam bath).

In keeping with the mosque, the hammam is a tranquil space with detailed mosaics, arches and ornate plasterwork. Years ago, I was scrubbed to smithereens in a Moroccan hammam so this time I opted for a simple steam bath without the ‘gommage’ option (exfoliation).  The dress code is bathers or a bikini – topless is fine but you need some form of ‘bottoms’. I hadn’t planned to go to the hammam so didn’t have either – spontaneity has its drawbacks! So here I was topless in a Turkish bath trying – in faltering French – to navigate how it all worked and in what order – from the difficult-to-shut 1 Euro lockers to the wrist tag, plastic slippers and showering protocol.

I got myself into the main room which has a long marble ledge running down each side, divided into three alcoves for sitting or lying in and furnished with buckets and water taps. I lay down and semi-relaxed but it would have been better to have a friend to lounge about and laugh with. After a while I graduated to the furthest room, which is more like a sauna with stepped ledges – the higher you go the hotter it gets – and a cold-water dipping pool. This is where my M & S undies got the full immersion treatment!

Once I was fully steamed and cooked, I progressed to an anteroom, where they bring you mint tea, which, although teeth-squeakingly sweet, is refreshing. I emerged feeling rejuvenated but, with damp knickers and damp hair, I soon lost the glow and warmth of the steam room as I was walking around the nearby Jardin des Plantes. On went the fingerless gloves and then I found a small café where I had a very overpriced but warming cup of tea, enough for me to enjoy all the autumn colours, pumpkin displays and curious woolly plants while I dried out!

Back in England: family, fine art, an old flame, a (very) old tree and teeth on the table

A highlight of this trip was meeting up with an old flame for the first time in over 25 years. We met in the ‘80s in London when I was his lodger and the world was a very different place. After years of communicating via Christmas cards between America and Australia, we were, at last, going to be in London at the same time. The anticipation and getting ready were half the fun. Limited to a travel wardrobe and my hair out of shape, my beloved sister came to the rescue. Despite our combined age of just over 130, we were like teenagers again. She helped me get ready, backcombed my hair, lent me a coat and scarf and some jazzy earrings. It was wonderfully bonding.

Lance and I met at the Cavalry and Guards Club in Piccadilly. Honouring the Club’s formal dress code, he was wearing an elegant blue suit and orange silk tie – the word dashing comes to mind. He’d hardly changed at all, and we effortlessly took up where we left off in what proved to be a fun and fond evening. Dining on the best of British at the wonderfully-named Noble Rot in Mayfair, we reminisced, caught up on all the years in between and shared unrealistic ex-pat dreams – he and his family now live in San Francisco – about how nice it’d be to own a pad in London and to stay for three months every year.

He remains a stalwart drinker, a bon viveur, a keen golfer and, while politically poles apart from me, he’s stylish, has artistic sensitivity and impeccable taste. He always did have a dry sense of humour. Quote of the evening had to be “Well, Cha (he’s the only person in the world who calls me Cha) it’s good to know, as a former lover, that you have found happiness with a dog.”

In a small world moment, Lance had seen the exhibition Siena: The Rise of Painting 1300-1350 at the Met that I was about to see at the National Gallery. In fact, some of the photos I am sharing are his.  It was an exquisite exhibition, and an extraordinary one with many of the works reassembled for the first time in centuries.

To quote from the National Gallery:

Simone Martini’s Orsini polyptych, split between Antwerp, Paris and Berlin is together again. His panels for the Siena’s Palazzo Pubblico altarpiece are reunited. 

Panels from Duccio’s Maestà, one of the largest and most complex altarpieces ever produced, on loan from Madrid, Fort Worth, New York and Washington and his ‘Virgin and Child’ and ‘Crucifixion’ triptychs come together.

Siena, I learnt, was one of the world’s richest cities and a major centre for artistic innovation and experimentation before the Italian Renaissance and up till the outbreak of the Black Death in 1348.  

What I loved was the sweep of the exhibition from the large, commissioned altarpieces, shimmering gold, to smaller paintings as well as ivory carvings, intricate enamelled boxes, reliquaries with fragments of bones, silks and textiles from Iran and Turkey, marble and wooden sculptures and illustrated manuscripts. The level of detail and the vividness of the colours – particularly the  blues, oranges, reds, purples and pinks – pulled me in as did the emotion and humanity in many of the pictures; the tender face of Mary, baby Jesus reaching up to pull aside the veil from his mother’s face and, my favourite, a picture of Jesus as a boy being told off by his parents and sporting a sulky teenage face and crossed arms.

Jesus getting scolded!

Seeing great nephews and nieces is always a joy on my UK trips, the catch being that it’s all or nothing, and I miss out on many of their milestones from trip to trip. I enjoyed reading Hairy Maclary to Dougie, who is now coming up for two, walking, talking and being schooled in the art of calling me Lot-Lot.

Up in Nottinghamshire with Mum, I caught up with my great nieces – Millie and Imogen from Yorkshire. Millie at 14 months was too young to recognise me but I got a great welcome Imogen, who is nearly five. I’d decorated the dining room with bunting and balloons, but much more exciting was doing the washing up standing on the step and playing peek-a-boo through the (rather old-fashioned) serving hatch between kitchen and dining room. That and ragging around with my eldest brother, the most devoted grand-father ever.

Mum had a rocky start to the year but has fought back amazingly well. So it was a triumph to manage a fun day out together and lay down new memories. At 93 it’s a case of carpe diem. We went down the A1 to Lincolnshire to see a heritage-listed tree – not just any old tree but possibly the oldest known apple tree in the world. The tree where Isaac Newton had his aha gravity moment.

The tree is in the garden of the Woolsthorpe Manor (now a National Trust property) where Newton was born in 1643. Inside the house is the room where he conducted his experiments on light using a prism, a recreated dining room, kitchen and bedroom with lots of heavy oak furniture, and exhibition on the 17th Century uses of urine. These ranged from mouth wash, skin softening, reducing wrinkles (I’m not up for trying it on the crow’s feet!) and stain removal to making gunpowder and warding off witches. It was also prized as a valuable side-hustle commodity you could sell to soap-makers and tanners – there was no Airbnb and Uber back then.

The apple tree, somewhat gnarled and bent, has proved amazingly resilient and survived being felled by a major storm in 1820. And, even better, the tree has offshoots all around the world including in Canada, the US, Argentina, Germany, South Africa, Korea, Japan and Australia. And the tree’s Australian descendants are not far from where I live.  

We enjoyed the spring sun but there was a biting wind, so we warmed up with a sandwich lunch in the barn and I enjoyed a nice British cuppa, one of 13.6 million served in National Trust cafés annually!

The weeks with Mum in her village near Retford in Nottinghamshire had some surprisingly busy days whether it was medical appointments, relatives coming over, neighbours popping in and out, the window cleaner appearing at the top windows early one morning when we were only half dressed, the boiler being serviced, supermarket shop-ups, a trip to the tip to get rid of rubbish from the garage – and managing all the things old age throws at you.

Mum and I had a few fraught moments due to an unholy alliance of old age irritations – hearing, digestion, eyes, poor sleep and anxiety topped off with a very nasty cold which we both succumbed to. Mum had two macular eye injections in one week, and for one of them I managed to leave all forms of payment behind on the kitchen table. Emerging from the injection feeling wobbly and seeing black dots, Mum wasn’t best pleased that I had no means of paying for the parking, which would likely result in a written penalty. You’re never too old to get a good ticking-off.  Luckily a kind-hearted woman gave us the £1.75.

However, that evening dinner was a disaster. I’d managed to make the sausage skins tough and the broccoli too crunchy (Goldilocks would have had a field day). Mum, cross and tired and unable to chew adequately, took out her dental plate and put it on the table where it sat accusingly. Mum’s teeth were out, and mine were firmly clenched. A bit of a Swords at Dawn moment!

Needless to say, we’d moved on by the next morning and, girls together, we both had 10.30am hair appointments – nothing like a haircut to make you feel better. Adjacent basins wondered my brother? Not quite but that’d be a good title for an Alan Bennett play!

I timed my trip to include Mother’s Day on my last weekend, and my sister came up from London to join us. Flowers, chocolates, coffee by the canal in Retford and roast chicken in the Aga. And time to read Mum a few more stories from Craig Brown’s A Voyage around the Queen, an entertaining biography with a difference. I bought it on the strength of this review from The Times:  “An unconventional tribute that offers a snapshot of almost a century of social history with a mix of royal insanity, and superior anecdotes, from farts and corgis to Paul McCartney and poets laureate.” And it absolutely delivered; Mum, I’ll be back to read you more extraordinary Royal tales (and tails) before you know it.