Category Archives: Art
Chez Bruce
On a recent Sunday, as the sun cast a gentle glow over the lazy autumn day, a group of us walked to Chez Bruce, the Michelin-starred restaurant on Bellevue Road by London’s lush Wandsworth Common. Now that we’re domiciled in the Sarf London ‘hood, it was time to check out this south-western stalwart of the cuisine scene, established in 1995 by the restaurant’s namesake, Bruce Poole, and Nigel Platts- Martin.
Monsieur had been a little bemused by a call and e-mail to check that we were still on track for our reservation, presumably to assure restaurant management that we weren’t going to do a runner, leaving a coveted, yet empty table on their hands. They needn’t have worried; we’d been eager to visit Chez Bruce since moving into the general area at the end of the summer (and before). Besides, I’d already printed a sample menu and drooled lovinglyover the delectable descriptions of Chez Bruce creations. Once I’ve done the drooling, there’s no turning back.
The initial impression of the dining room is that of self-assurance: clean lines, a calming neutral shade on the walls and the careful placement of contemporary tableaux about the place (some quite diverse, but enough space between them to create more of a gallery feel than a clash of the artworks), all creating a quietly confident ambience. The floors and furniture are no-nonsense dark wood, the tables all shrouded in crisp white linens, the glassware sparkling in its simplicity, the overall look completely unpretentious, yet elegant and somehow moneyed at the same time. It takes quite a knack to pull off this genre of presentation – a bit like the no-make-up-make-up-look.
The menu arrived, positively bulging with seasonal produce, from butternut squash to game – it was fit for the season. Our waitress proffered first a round of spiced cheese crackers, then the bread basket. I chose a cube of focaccia that was so fresh it was like eating a little cloud of Italian bread.
The yellow circle of butter sat on a streaky slab of granite – creating a subtly artistic table statement with geometry and contrasting textures on the otherwise blank canvas. Shortly after carafes of red and white wine hit the table, our starters arrived. Monsieur’s came just before mine: a bright little red casserole dish of venison dotted with home-made spaetzle and my favourite-ever fungus – the girolle.
I have quite a thing for mushrooms, so my starter of choice was the wild mushroom and parmesan custard with fennel salad and truffled polenta chips.
The mushrooms hid in the savoury custard at the bottom of the dish, whilst dice of braised fennel and courgette sat atop the eggy mix. The custard was rich, so rich that it demanded the coolness of the vegetable ‘salad’ to balance it out. The earthy mushroom, pungent parmesan and soft aniseed of fennel complemented each other in both flavour and texture: strong to fresh, soft to crisp. The polenta chips were also a delight – creamy within their delicate, crisp, golden exterior. I thanked the angels for only sending me four, thus saving my already ample hips from further curvature. As for the quantity of the dish, it was well-gauged; I couldn’t have eaten another bite, but a mouthful less would have left me begging for more.
The game on the menu almost lured me in, but in the end it wass the skate that caught me. Light, with a zig-zag of deep orange butternut squash purée, fresh mussels echoing the amber hue, and sage leaves so crispy that they were a treat in their own right.
It was time for dessert. Confusion set in. Should I indulge in the warming poached pear or satisfy my inner cheeselover with a plate of England’s finest? I deferred to the wisdom of our waitress, Fran.
“The hot chocolate pudding’s a signature dish here,” she told me and, with her knowing look and nod of encouragement, three out of four of our party were persuaded in this gooey direction. It was really quite exquisite, with a refreshing scoop of praline parfait melting into marbled magnificence about the warm chocolate base, but once more I was impressed by how well the chefs had judged quantity. With such intense sweetness, no matter how well counterbalanced by its creamy partner, the chocolate pudding could easily have pushed one over the gastronomic edge, had it been even one dessertspoonful larger.
As it was, we could all still move after our Sunday afternoon feast at Chez Bruce, happily walking the long way home, with detours in the interest of regional familiarisation. The food had happily exceeded our (high) expectations, yet hadn’t swamped our digestive system to the point of regret. The staff were psychic – predicting exactly when we might need them and disappearing when we didn’t. At one point in conversation, I swear I didn’t see our wine glasses being filled, yet miraculously they had been. This was a disconcerting show of extraordinary stewardship for the woman who prides herself on her observational skills, prompting me to wonder if the Chez Bruce staff uniform might include invisibility cloaks. It’s not easy to deliver top service without making a patron feel smothered and at Chez Bruce they do it so effortlessly that they should could open a school for aspiring members of the hospitality fraternity, teaching this very art.
So, in summary – Chez Bruce has it all: a Michelin star, beautifully-appointed dining room, leafy outlook, fine food in elegant quantities and highly-practised staff. With such a delicious neighbour, we’re sure to be back for more.
Chez Bruce, 2 Bellevue Road, London, SW17 7EG
Telephone: 020 8672 0114
Website: http://www.chezbruce.co.uk/
Art and Hospitality at Le Meridien, Piccadilly
On a UK Monopoly Board, Piccadilly is the sixth most expensive property at a whopping £280.00 and bears the colour yellow. To build a Monopoly hotel on the site will set you back £1,200.00. In reality, Piccadilly is a busy, multi-lane thoroughfare in London’s West End, running from Hyde Park Corner past Green Park to Piccadilly Circus. It’s home to the Hard Rock Café, The Ritz and the Royal Academy. Piccadilly is where Russian spy, Alexander Litvenenko visited a branch of Itsu just after he was poisoned by polonium, a deadly radioactive substance, in a modern-day Cold War power struggle. It’s where to browse through book stacks at the amply-stocked bookstores of Hatchard’s and Waterstone’s, ogle gourmet delights at Fortnum and Mason and Caviar House or refuel at The Wolseley, where weekend brunch tables are a hot ticket. With such esteemed neighbours, both historic and present, it’s no surprise that Piccadilly is where the French hotel chain, Le Méridien, decided to install their landmark London hotel – a stone’s throw from Eros and the Circus’s famed flashing signs. It has now resided at the Regency property of number 21 Piccadilly for a sound twenty-six years, since 1986, in a purpose-built building that first housed The Piccadilly Hotel in 1908 and Masonic temples in its basement.
I’m ashamed to admit that Le Méridien on Piccadilly is a place I must have passed thousands of times yet never once entered and I cannot fathom why. This has recently been rectified; not only have I now entered Le Méridien Piccadilly, I’ve also luxuriated in its underground swimming pool and snored soundly in one of its gigantic beds, oblivious to the busy West End traffic artery located mere feet from my head.
My recent stay at Le Méridien has also educated me in their all-pervading approach to art. The arrival art is what a guest encounters first. As part of Le Méridien’s re-branding at the hand of the Starwood Hotels and Resorts group since they took ownership of the chain in 2005, art has been incorporated into all areas of the guest experience, starting the moment you walk through the door. Before I’d even reached the check-in desk I’d already noted a display of limited edition umbrellas by designer Duro Olowu, with snazzy geometric prints that any connoisseur would be happy to shelter beneath in a London rainstorm.
Even the lowly key card has been welcomed into the LM artistic experience. My card, a work of art in its own right, sported part of a Yan Lei Colour Wheel, its design being part of the LM Unlock Art incentive: not only does the key card open your door it forms part of a collection by a contemporary artist. The current featured artist at LM Piccadilly is Langfang-born Yan Lei, a member of the LM100, the collective comprising 100 influencers who contribute to the LM experience, through their expertise across a wide selection of the arts, from art and design to cuisine and perfumery. Some of the previous Unlock Art card collections, by fellow LM100 members, Hisham Bharoocha and Sam Samore, hang in frames by the lifts, but form and function are only two facets to the LM key cards; they also provide free access to Tate Britain and Tate Modern exhibitions – all you have to do is tell the concierge which Tate exhibitions you’d like to attend so he can arrange access for you, then just flash your key card when you get there, unlocking a local cultural experience for free.
Yan Lei’s Colour Wheel paintings hang in the Piccadilly lobby, the bespoke carpets underfoot are awash with lines, thoughtfully reflecting the inspiration for the company’s name – the meridian lines which criss-cross the globe, and in the ground floor internet den the shelves are set with contemporary ceramics, smart and stark against a dark background. There’s a video installation, created especially for Le Méridien, playing on a loop behind the Guest Relations desk and, on your way to the Longitude Bar, you’ll pass an elegant series of black and white portraits of the people responsible for the overall artistic experience that a guest will enjoy at Le Méridien – the LM100. As for that subtle aroma wafting through the lobby? That’s the signature Le Méridien scented candle, LM01, created by more members of the LM100 clan, Fabrice Penot and Edouard Roschi. It’s a unique blend of frankincense, iris absolute and musk with cedar notes, gently adding to the sensory welcome so carefully constructed with a guest’s first impressions in mind.
The final and possibly most important part of Le Méridien’s atmosphere is the human component. In my time at the hotel I truly appreciated the comportment of the staff. From greeting to leaving, there was always a smile, a courteous hand, nothing too much trouble. Lift doors were held open without asking, a troublesome door catch dealt with immediately by not one but three kind and patient staff, an unusual breakfast order delivered on-time, without issue, a forgotten toothbrush taken care of, taxi doors opened and closed, a myriad small kindnesses. Whomever I spoke with on the staff seemed to genuinely care that I had a positive experience of Le Méridien Piccadilly. That’s what I call the Art of Hospitality, and in the travel environment it’s absolutely priceless.
High Tea with G&T at Le Meridien Piccadilly
High Tea is a quintessentially English tradition, introduced by Anna, the seventh Duchess of Bedford, to maintain one’s aristocratic blood sugar levels between an early luncheon and dinner served late into the evening. The tradition caught on rapidly, developed with the Earl of Sandwich’s then-revolutionary idea to place fillings between slices of bread, and is now firmly entrenched in the country’s culinary identity. Travel anywhere in England and you’re sure to find somewhere at which to take a high tea. Slight regional variations cast welcome individuality across teas throughout the land, from Land’s End to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, although I’m fairly certain that the afternoon tea currently en vogue at Le Méridien Piccadilly is peerless for its particular take on the conventional.
The food component of Le Méridien’s high tea follows the usual format with a mixture of savoury and sweet:
- A selection of finger sandwiches, filled with cucumber and cream cheese, honey roast ham and mustard, Scottish smoked salmon, egg and cress
- Warm homemade scones with strawberry jam and Cornish clotted cream
- A selection of pastries
- Some wicked petits fours (in our case to include macarons and a custard tart)
So far, so straightforward. Straightforward, that is, until we get to the tea. Forget chamomile, lapsang souchong and Earl Grey. At Le Méridien you’ll find your teapot filled with a gin-based infusion, giving a whole new meaning to G&T(ea). If that isn’t unusual enough, the gin flavour is then enhanced by the addition of fragrant ingredients, so, on the afternoon tea menu you might see:
- A choice of herbal or fruit infused gin and tonic syrup
- Monkey 47 Gin infused with lavender
- Bulldog Gin with fresh lychee fruit
- Cucumber infused Hendrick’s Gin
- Vanilla and chilli infused Sloane’s
- Sweet Basil infused Gin Mare stirred with rosemary
- Japanese green tea infused with Beefeater 24
The infusion is served in a clear glass tonic reduction teapot, with a small glass jug of tonic water with which to adjust the G n Tea to the desired strength. Naturally, to try all six of the suggested brews might leave one somewhat wobbly on one’s pins, so we restricted our intake to just a couple. The lavender-flavoured Monkey 47 Gin surprised me with the strength of its aroma – so much so that I didn’t feel the need to drink it, but I did have a few sips of the cucumber-infused Hendrick’s gin. This was a curiously warm yet cooling combination. On another occasion I’d be tempted to swig the lot. Alas, the day was not yet over by a long shot so it was time to exercise restraint. Next stop? The pool in Le Méridien’s basement for a preprandial dip.
The G&T Afternoon Tea at Le Méridien Piccadilly is served in The Terrace Grill and Bar from 12pm to 6pm. Cost: £32.00 per person.
If gin isn’t your tipple, fret not! There are other afternoon teas on offer:
The Terrace Afternoon Tea – served with finger sandwiches, scones, pastries and your choice from the extensive selection of teas and coffees. £25.00 per person.
The Light Afternoon Tea – served with finger sandwiches and scones and your choice of tea or coffee. £18.00 per person.
The Champagne Afternoon Tea – served with a flute of champagne, finger sandwiches, scones and pastries, tea or coffee. £35.00 per person.
A London Art-U-Cation with Le Meridien at Frieze
A luxury hotel, lashings of fine dining and a whirlwind of contemporary art? Chez Epicurienne, that’s what I call a killer combination that I’d be happy to dive into on any day of the week. Courtesy of the Le Méridien hotel group, I was recently invited to partake of just such a tantalising synthesis of sensory stimulants during an arts-focussed stay-cation, based at their landmark hotel in London’s Piccadilly. I’m still recovering, in a good way.
A top hotel’s relationship to food is a no-brainer; the two go hand-in-hand, but where does art enter the equation? In this case, Le Méridien, the forty-year old international hotel chain, has incorporated art into its properties so that wherever guests look, art will meet their eyes – be it on arrival, on relaxing, even on using their key card. Steering Le Méridien’s artistic intentions is Jérôme Sans, the French art curator and critic, in his capacity as the LM Cultural Curator. What’s more, for the past five years Le Méridien has been a principle partner and supporter of an arts initiative called OFT – the Outset/ Frieze Art Fair Fund to Benefit the Tate Collection. Through OFT, the Tate is able to bypass purchasing bureaucracy to acquire work by emerging artists featured at the annual London fair for contemporary art: Frieze.
Over two days, our small group of bloggers along with various members of hotel management and Le Meridien’s PR company, Fleishman Hillard, managed to experience one art discussion panel, several types of unforgettable hors d’oeuvre, one unusual afternoon tea, six delicious meals, one international art fair, three world-famous art galleries, exhibitions various, two nights of sumptuous sleep, meetings with key art experts and personalities, a lesson in Le Méridien’s history and brand and various forms of London transport – including the water kind. For obvious reasons, I will not attempt to squeeze everything listed above into one post, lest it resemble a hefty artistic monograph. Instead, I invite you to join me on a multi-post tour of Le Méridien’s London art-u-cation. It’ll be an inspiration – for locals and visitors alike.
Photo above courtesy of the Le Meridien website, http://www.lemeridienpiccadilly.co.uk
Hotel Pullman, Marseille Palm Beach
Marseille: an ancient city renowned for many things, among which number its huge commercial port, a small crime problem, the legendary Château d’If and fine bouillabaisse. The city lent its name to the French national anthem, la Marseillaise, pastis was born here and Marcel Pagnol took childhood walks in the lush Parc Borély. I suggest that we add to this hall of fame the Hotel Pullman Marseille Palm Beach, where Monsieur and I splurged for a night of luxury during our South of France ‘vacances’ last year.
Even for we two inveterate travellers, it had been a long day. We’d driven up from the Camargues, lunched at a sleepy Martigues and screeched into the last boat trip of the day around the calanques near the pretty port of Cassis. The driving in the vicinity of such a natural wonder is reputed to be fraught with tempers frayed by battles fought over parking spaces; sadly, we’d found it to be exactly so, yet somehow managed to escape without a single dent in our fender. Leaving the beauty behind as we entered the messy sprawl of the outskirts of Marseille, we were intent on a night of calm and relaxation. Fortunately, once we found the Pullman Hotel, calm and relaxation is exactly what we enjoyed.
I say ‘once we found’ because the Pullman is James Bond-esque in the way that it hides behind a curve in the Corniche, sinking its storeys below the coastal thoroughfare so that it’s barely visible from the road. We, as many others must have done before us, drove straight on past the entrance before recognising our mistake and navigating a U turn – no mean feat in the early evening rush of traffic – to return to our abode for the night.
A porter swiftly separated luggage from vehicle as a valet disappeared with the car down a ramp into what could have been Hades for all we knew – via the entrance to what we deduced must be the subterranean car park - very 007 once again. Inside, a vast lobby was populated by three or four staff and one of those life-size sculptures of a cow wearing far splashier colours than might be expected in your average milking shed. Elsewhere, the furniture was über chic in the fashion of a deconstructed Mondrian (read: hard-cornered squares and rectangles in primary colours) but quite uncomfortable looking – the subliminal message being that this was not a place to get cosy, although the view across the bay was spectacular and it would be quite possible to spend a couple of hours sitting here watching ships and yachts navigating the busy bay.
Fortunately, our room had its own, private view out to sea, and a balcony from which to enjoy it at our leisure. It was a hot evening, hazy and vaguely rose-tinted. We watched stand-up paddlers taking advantage of the calm waters.
Looking to our right the Corniche snaked against the coast, a gigantic propeller blade rising in dark silhouette against the sunset; this was the 1971 oeuvre of Marseille’s sculptor son, César, honouring the repatriation of people from North Africa to France.
To wash off the day’s accumulation of salt and sweat, we took a dip in the Pullman’s pool, which looked like this:
It was big enough to accommodate pre-dinner swimmers of all ages, from pre-schooler to retiree, and the water was just the right type of cool.
Later, as Monsieur and I basked in the last of the day’s sun, we flicked through guides in an attempt to decide how and where to dine. In the end, room service won. We would sup in our bathrobes, with the unsurpassable vista visible from our balcony, gathering strength for the serious task of exploring Marseille the next day.
The doorbell rang and our evening meal arrived. Seconds later, Monsieur settled down with comfort food: a burger and plump, golden fries with a verrine of coleslaw in a nod to the possibility of fresh produce, even if it hadn’t been ordered in quantity tonight.
I stuck to lighter fare. The smoked salmon was delicious, served with mini-blinis, a dollop of taramasalata and another of soft, herbed cheese. The salad leaves were unusually unblemished, natural, sans vinaigrette.
Then I allowed myself a small plate of cheese.
A glass of crisp, chilled white wine completed the experience.
And so, when last in Marseille, Monsieur and I unabashedly enjoyed our room service supper in our own time, watching all manner of seafaring vessel criss-crossing the bay as the sun sank in the west. It was the epitome of a holiday dining experience: good, simple food, great view, the privacy of our own room and no glad rags required. Not to mention the double bill of Engrenages (Spiral) on TV. A perfect evening, indeed.
A Gallery of Sand in Giverny
Even as a child, I didn’t have much patience for sand castles. ‘What’s the point?’ I wondered, ‘in spending painstaking hours building crenellations, filling moats and adorning walls with shells, when all the effort would only be destroyed by (a) someone’s careless foot, (b) a galumphing dog off its lead or (c) the incoming tide?’ I was far happier torturing hermit crabs or sea anemones in rock pools.
Even so, there are some talented folk out there who both possess the patience for sculpting sand and artistic skill. Two such folk create masterpieces of sand far from any beach in Giverny, the village where pilgrims paying homage to the late, great Claude Monet flock in their hundreds of thousands each year. They are Chris Avril and Jean-Pierre Porchez, whose compositions exhibit talent, perseverance and poise. To stumble upon their sculptures is a pleasant surprise in a place like Giverny, where there are altogether too many mediocre art works hanging in galleries designed to lure the tourist.
Here are the artistes:
And this is their new take on The Last Supper:
A close up of Christ and friends:
I think the bulbous items on the ‘table’ may be a carafe of wine and a bread roll, but can’t be certain. In any case, it’s hardly enough to sustain a group of thirteen.
Across the way we spot some more bearded chaps – this time, artistic heroes.
This man with palette in hand is Renoir.
And this is Monsieur Monet, the reason we were all in Giverny that late September day. To the left is Gustave Caillebotte, a great friend and contemporary of Monet, and to the right is the poor, tortured Vincent Van Gogh.
From left to right we have Renoir, Pissaro, Berthe Morisot ( a female impressionist cleverly breaking up all that maleness exuding from the sand), Sisley and Caillebotte again.
The exhibition of sand sculptures was free to view and no one seemed to be guarding the fragile creations, yet thankfully there were no galumphing dogs in sight, and all who stepped in to visit left their careless feet at the gate. In fact, when Monsieur and I were there, all were speechless with awe at the hours of painstaking work on display. The question that nobody dared ask, however, was ‘what’ll happen when it rains?’ and this is Normandy, so rain it will. My guess is that Chris and Jean-Pierre will wait for the storm to pass before quietly fetching their buckets and spades and starting from scratch. Admirable, really, to be that patient, not to mention ingenious to create a gallery of sand in a painter’s village.
Monet’s Giverny –
Think of some of the world’s record-breaking works of art at point of sale, and paintings from Claude Monet’s Water Lilies series will no doubt feature on the list. Ever since I first saw a Monet in the flesh in the eighties, during a touring exhibition that actually made it the extra xxxx miles to far-flung New Zealand (a rarity at the time), I have always dreamed of visiting Monet’s home at Giverny, to see the artist’s famed gardens for myself. In October just past, that dream came true. I had to pinch myself repeatedly, it was such a thrill to finally be in such an art-lover’s mecca.
Monsieur and I arrived in the small village of Giverny on a dull autumn day, amidst a steady Norman drizzle. I’d always thought that May would be the optimum time to see Monet’s gardens, as they’d be in the prime of spring blossom and bloom, but apparently the little village is overrun with international fans of Impressionism in springtime, so by coming later in the year, we’d wisely sidestepped the push and shove of tourist hordes. Would the effort be worth it? Would we see any flowers? Or would we curse our autumn plans and wish we’d come in spring or summer, with the world, his wife and their dog?
The weather was certainly disappointing on the morning of our visit but, ever the optimists, we still hoped there might be some sort of floral leftovers from the finer seasons just past.
Here’s a sample of what Monsieur and I found in Monet’s garden at Giverny. Our hopes were rewarded with late-bloomers in every direction.
I love pink flowers and these were among my favourites in Monet’s garden.
These fellows were drooping with the rainfall but still managed to remind me of a blazing sunset on a hot summer’s evening (even if I were wrapped up in coat and scarf at the time!)
The path from Monet’s house down to the end of the garden was wild with a carpet of nasturtiums – as a small girl, I used to pick nasturtiums from the school hedge suck ‘honey’ from the point beneath the bloom. Ever since, they’ve remained a favourite flower. At Giverny, their colours only seemed brightened by the grey day.
We wandered down aisles of flourishing flora and through an underground tunnel to reach Monet’s water lily ponds. So this was where the great painter created some of the greatest impressionist artworks known to man.
The artist said of his water lilies: “It took me time to understand my water lilies. I had planted them for the pleasure of it; I grew them without ever thinking of painting them”. Little did he know that through his paintings these would arguably become the most famous water lilies in the world.
It may have been gloomy when we saw them, but the ponds were still beautiful and, believe it or not, there was the occasional freshly-opened flower sitting on the lily pads.
The poor chap in red jacket waited patiently with his tripod as I photographed the ponds, but unfortunately for him, I wasn’t the only one annoying his view.
Imperceptible here are the water-lubbing insects who walk across the water on spindly wee legs. The pond life is happy and rampant.
As we left the ponds, returning to the main gardens, the sun decided to pop its head out from behind the clouds. This flower looked like a sunburst in its own right.
Sunshine on a rainy day…
The perfect lawn for picnicking.
This old wheel barrow must have worked hard in its past life, carrying plants and trees and soil and vegetables from the potager (vege garden). Now it sits in peaceful retirement.
There’s one word for flowers like this: happy. Monet said “I am following Nature without being able to grasp her… I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.” With floral optimism such as this in one’s garden, it’s little wonder, although the great man started his life as an artist drawing caricatures, not a petal in sight.
This is one of the prettiest exit signs I’ve ever seen.
We were lucky with our Giverny expedition; it may have been raining when we arrived, but the sun appeared for just long enough to give us a taste of what it must be like to visit on a Halcyon day. Claude Monet once said “I am only good at two things, and those are: gardening and painting”.
This is not entirely true. He was also very good at what we were about to do next: eating.
Parc Caillebotte
When I was a child, we always had prints of famous paintings on various of the walls at home. It’s little wonder I grew up with a taste for things French (including a certain man), because most of these prints were of works by French painters – from Chardin to Lautrec.
One of my favourites was the depiction of a nineteenth century couple walking along a Paris street in the rain. The man holds up a large black umbrella to shield the pair against the downpour and the streets are cobbled in that tell-tale European way, evoking daydreams of times of yore. I always loved looking at a particular building in the background, which is shaped like a piece of pie, the point of which is aimed directly at the viewer. “Why would an architect make a building that shape?” I’d ask, “To fit the parcel of land, I suppose, but it’s not very practical. How on earth would you furnish the triangular rooms in the point?” No one ever had an answer for me, but it didn’t matter one jot. I loved that painting regardless of the fact that I didn’t understand the reasoning behind triangular buildings, or why the beautiful woman wears black. Had she and her husband been to a funeral? Or perhaps were they in mourning? Regardless, as an artistic device their sombre clothes match well the drizzle of the day. Yes, it was likely that they were sad about something and that gave me yet another mystery to ponder.
Gustave Caillebotte was the artist responsible for this work, named ‘Rue de Paris; temps de pluie’, or ‘Rainy Day in Paris’, the original of which now hangs in the Art Institute of Chicago. Those In The Know refer to Caillebotte as an impressionist, yet there’s a realism in his work that the Seurats and Monets lack. Caillebotte’s paintings are like snapshots of the époque in which he lived. You could almost walk into them, they’re so lifelike.
Given my interest in Caillebotte you can imagine my excitement when Monsieur’s Maman suggested lunch at the Parc Caillebotte in Yerres. Caillebotte had been born into a well-to-do Parisian family that spent many of their summers at the family property in Yerres, a small town on the Yerres River, to the south of Paris. This property has been named Parc Caillebotte for its former owners and appears in various of Caillebotte’s paintings, such as Les Oragers (The Orange Trees).
Le Casin at Parc Caillebotte
The ‘Mairie’, or Mayor’s office, for Yerres has invested much time and effort in restoring the Parc to create a leisure destination which successfully blends culture, relaxation, and natural beauty, whilst celebrating the work of its famous son. Sadly, it was a grey February day when we made our visit to the Parc, but that didn’t detract from its interest. The large, white Caillebotte family house known as ‘le Casin’ stands proud at the entrance to the Parc. It is home to two permanent exhibitions, but was closed when we visited. Outside, there are various buildings of different styles and purposes dotted around the grounds, like the funny little pagoda atop a rockery with grotto beneath. This was also closed but in the summer months it serves as a refreshments kiosk. On a day like this, there was little need for a bottle of something refreshing. The weather was fresh enough.
The Orangery
Down by the river, there’s a long, white orangery with outdoor seats, where a couple of local dames sat and gossiped, quite oblivious to the chill in the air. Monsieur’s Maman told us that further afield lay a chapel and vegetable garden, but we all agreed that, on this occasion, it was too cold to hang about and explore. Warm interiors beckoned.
“It’s true, I swear. Marie-Claude buys the Chinese escargots. Quelle horreur!”
At the Parc I did, however, talk to the animals again. There are hens of all descriptions and a pair of flopsy white rabbits in a large chicken coop behind the Parc’s restaurant, Chalet du Parc, so I clucked at them and they clucked back and Monsieur’s Maman must then have realised that her son is marrying a madwoman. As for Monsieur, well, he’s just used to it. His ears are now deaf to my clucking sounds.
I loved these cotton wool hens with their little blue faces. And so did the four year-old next to me!
One day, when the sun shines and the arctic air has gone, I hope we will all return to the Parc Caillebotte. There are the exhibitions to see, naturally, but on the Halcyon day that I imagine, we won’t want to linger indoors. We’ll buy cold drinks at the Pagoda kiosk, picnic on the broad lawn and then perhaps rent a couple of canoes to paddle up and down the river, just like the man in Caillebotte’s painting, ‘Les Périssoires sur l’Yerres’ (‘Oarsmen on the Yerres). To that day I do look forward, very much indeed, but first I should really tell you all about LUNCH.
Tinnura, Sardinia – Where the walls don’t only have ears…
Sardinia is an island of secrets and quiet beauty, the most precious delights of which are likely to be tucked away from tour bus routes. Driving into the island’s hinterland on a warm May day, Monsieur and I rounded a bend on a country highway to discover one such unexpected treasure: the painted village of Tinnura.
Tinnura’s church lies behind these painted walls,
the priest and members of his congregation immortalised for all to see.
I wondered who this chap with traditional flat cap was:
What tales would he tell us in his mountain dialect?
Are these flowers of gratitude for an answered prayer? Or perhaps this member of Tinnura’s faithful has volunteered her flower arranging skills to the parish.
Even the pedestrian crossing adds colour to this quiet little town, made all the more quiet by the heat of mid-afternoon. Apart from the rare few souls we spotted venturing beyond the shade of their shuttered interiors into the cauldron-like streets, the only population we saw in Tinnura were painted into its walls.
The painter’s brush does not limit its work to celebrating the townsfolk of Tinnura alone; their animals also feature. Here a pair of horses ready themselves for a trot out of their frame and onto the street.
On the side of a house a short walk from the main street, we see the ominous masked faces of players in an ancient Sardinian rite that some say dates back to prehistory. The matador-like man or isohadore looks all set to lasso a friend or woman in the invisible carnival crowd, taking his chosen one prisoner with a rope of plaited reeds. Meanwhile, the mamuthones in hook-nosed masks and shaggy sheepskin cloaks, are the fruit of a union between fire and moon, bearing the weight of cumbersome cow bells on their backs.
No masked beings from the underworld here, though. Life goes on in these walls, simple, daily life. These women are practising the art of basket weaving.
And this trio kneads, shapes and bakes loaves of bread to feed the Tinnurese – an apt scene for Tinnura’s Bread Street or Via del Pane.
But in Tinnura it’s not a case of all work and no play makes Giovanni a dull boy. Oh, no, the Tinnurese tap their feet to the songs of their friend, the accordion player, as one wicked reveller stumbles off with the wine.
This man plays the pipe, not just one but three at at a time.
Here we see that even the painted ladies of Tinnura have shadows.
Behind these folk busying themselves with the day’s chores, an ancient nuraghe sits on a hillside.
If you’re peckish, why not visit Tinnura’s baker? Rest assured, his loaves are never stale.
From this angle, the Wine Thief looks set to trip over the curb, spilling his liquid loot all over unlucky passers by..
This pair of monochrome images look like photos from an agricultural history book. See how they tilled the land?
With a living population of 268, Tinnura’s numbers are swelled by its painted people. Monsieur and I were only there for a fraction of an hour, yet this Sardinian surprise will stay in my visual archive for ever.
Hot and Cold in Enna
When you think of Sicily, what comes to mind? For me, it’s a curious mixture of things: the dreaded ‘clan’, Mount Etna, cannoli and some seriously glowing mosaics, sweet Marsala wine drunk IN Marsala, ancient Greek temples and being so sick that I couldn’t speak. The first time I visited the island at the bottom of Italy’s boot, it was with my fine and decorative arts class. Our tutors, a pair of ill-matched career academics whose love of art was their only real common ground, felt that our studies would benefit from the variety of artistic and archaeological styles present in Sicily, and so, one April a short lifetime ago, off to Sicily we went.
In our small lecture theatre at the Auction House School, one ambitious germ managed to infect most of the class, so we were far from the most popular passengers on our charter flight. In fact, the amount of coughing and sneezing and nose-blowing for which our small group was responsible meant that we received a number of death glares and dagger stares during the trip, and one man seated a little too close to us for his own comfort took to breathing through his handkerchief.
It’s probably a good thing that this was an evening flight, because the drop out of the sky, directly over the water and plop onto the precarious seaside runway of Palermo’s airport is somewhat frightening when you can see what’s going on. We were sick enough without worrying about missing the runway and sinking into the sea. A coach collected us from the airport and drove us into town, where we’d be staying at a hotel on the Via Vittorio Emmanuele, not far from the Cathedral and a central base from which to explore. En route, weary and still coughing, we pressed our noses to the windows, watching the lights and trying to work out where land met sea.
Above the ground floor of our hotel, the layout was more than a little challenging, comprising disorienting tangles of corridors. The simple rooms were clean and neat with polished linoleum floors and crisp, clean bed linen. Downstairs, the lobby spoke of better times with a quiet but tired luxury – creamy marble floors, bright, brass light fittings and a wood-panelled bar from which our welcome drinks were served. By this time, my throat had swollen to the point that I couldn’t talk without extreme discomfort. Sipping on a juice, I ventured briefly into conversation with a hoarse whisper before giving up.
“It’s so strange to see you so quiet,” commented the course administrator, “usually, we can’t shut you up!” I tried to join in the resulting laughter, but it just about choked me. I couldn’t even conceive of eating with the others as that would require swallowing. It was time to take some medicine and go to bed.
Pity my poor, patient roommates over the course of the next week. I was one of the worst afflicted of the group and there was no way that anyone could possibly sleep through my night-time cough. It’s a small wonder that Christina and Sarah didn’t hold a pillow over my face and wait for my breathing to stop. Given the swelling in my neck, the murder wouldn’t have taken long and then they might have benefited from some uninterrupted sleep. As it was, each morning we were all completely wiped out which was a shame because Christina and Sarah weren’t even sick. I felt horrible for them.
In light of this plague, there is one place which is tattooed into my memory for all the wrong reasons. We’d spent the morning on the coach, following the twisty-turny roads into Sicily’s hinterland. I’d had just about enough twisty-turny for one day and was dying to get off the bus. Cue the saying ‘be careful what you wish for’. No sooner were we parked up in the hilltop town of Enna than I wished myself back on the bus in one of its warm seats. Enna, located literally IN the clouds, was quite a few degrees colder than the coastal areas. Still unaccustomed to the in-between seasons of the northern hemisphere, I was ready for spring, dressed optimistically in chinos, a cotton tee and a cotton jumper. Unlike the seasoned travelling couple in our midst who had come prepared with clever little bum bag anoraks, I was now not only sick but also turning an attractive shade of lavender with the cold. This, my friends, was a prime recipe for pneumonia.
‘No problemo!’ chirped my trusty sidekick, Sandra, once we’d dutifully shivered at the lookout point and returned to find a locked bus, no driver in sight. ‘Let’s just find a cafe and wait,’ And so we did, but coffees in Italy, unless otherwise specified, tend to be short black. Our coffees were drunk in a shot and the proprietor chose that time to close for his own break (or perhaps he didn’t like the sound of my phlegmy bark). So, Sandra and I were back on the street, in the freezing cold, with insufficient clothing and the best part of an hour to kill before the museum opened. Our touring compatriots, meanwhile, dressed wisely in layers, were enjoying an amble through the picturesque little town, impervious, it would seem, to the altitudinal weather conditions. Never before and never again since have I felt so bone-chillingly cold as I did that day. My advice to visitors to Sicily? Take some warm layers with you if you intend to visit hilly areas away from the coast. Make that MANY warm layers. Anything’s better than feeling like a walking experiment in cryogenics like I did that day in Enna.
To redeem the Arctic Enna, there is a wonderful little archaeological museum there called the Alessi, with large windows looking out across Sicily, down to the (warm) coast. One of our tutors had a favourite game for museum visits such as this, where he’d pick one of us at random and ask us to describe a particular object – his choice, not yours. This felt great when you followed a logical formula of starting at the top of a statue, say, and working your way down, commenting on style and features and, where appropriate, anatomy and dress; Michael liked that sort of methodical analysis. The same exercise could be excruciating, however, if you started with the hands, zig-zagged between eyes and feet and back to knees, mis-identifying style of costume or era of manufacture, with the pain of Michael’s tough-love criticism exacerbated by hovering museum visitors who thought they’d stumbled across a tour with Someone Who Knew What They Were Talking About.
There, in the museum with arguably the best view in Sicily, in a freezing little town at the top of the island, it was Carol’s turn. Carol had a lilting American accent with a barely perceptible Southern-ness to it, long brown curls and a wardrobe so filled with colour that it reminded me of Seventeen Magazine. That day, Michael asked Carol to describe an ancient object of Carthaginian origin. For anyone who hasn’t read the Aeneid, Carthage is an ancient country which, if it still existed, would be just across the Med in North Africa, hence the probable reason for this object turning up in Sicily. Enna itself had a colourful relationship with Carthage; it allied itself with Syracuse against Carthage, then in 259BC it was taken over by Carthaginians and was ruled by them for a year until the Romans came to the rescue. Unfortunately, this knowledge, which had been drummed into us in preparation for our field trip to the island off the boot, seemed to have evaporated out of Carol’s head. She ummed, she aahed. Sensing the need for a prompt, Michael stepped forward.
“Why don’t you start with where the object is from, Carol.”
“It’s from Ancient Mesopotamia,” Carol began and we all cringed, knowing full well what lay ahead.
“How do you KNOW it’s from Mesopotamia?” Michael asked, luring poor Carol into a spiny trap.
“Oh, it’s because of the style, and the fact that Mesopotamia was a sea-faring nation, so their sailors travelled up and down the Mediterranean on their ships, trading with different places, like Sicily.”
If the word ‘Carthage’ had been substituted for ‘Mesopotamia’, Carol would have been just fine, but by mixing up the names of her nations, she was now in the midst of a train wreck of Mesopotamian proportions and no one could help her out of it. FYI Mesopotamia is another ancient country, roughly equating to where Iraq is now. No sea to speak of. No reason for ships. No discernible trade with an island nation such as Sicily. Help.
“So, Carol,” Michael had a devious glint in his eye, “tell me, now. Where IS Mesopotamia?”
Carol was still calm. “It’s just across the Mediterranean.”
“More detail, please. Where EXACTLY across the Mediterranean is Mesopotamia?”
“You know, where Tunisia is now.”
The hole was getting deeper and soon Carol would be buried alive.
“Tell me then, Carol. For what is Mesopotamia best known?”
By now it was obvious, even to Carol, that Michael’s sarcasm was ready for a rampage. This only happened when we were wrong. Previously calm, Carol began to twitch and her bottom lip quivered a bit.
“Well, um, like I said, they’re a sea-faring nation and they traded a lot in the Med and they also went to war a lot.”
That wasn’t the answer our tutor had wanted. In an ideal world, Carol would have mentioned Ur and lapis lazuli and cuneiform script, even though Mesopotamia had nothing to do with the object at hand. Michael raised his eyebrows as he looked away from Carol, casting a glance around the room.
“Can anyone help Carol here?” he asked with a groan.
One girl bit her nails with nerves, looking at the ground lest he pick on her next. I can’t remember who it was now, but some smart-arse was thrilled to correct Carol’s mistakes and explain the differences between Carthage and Mesopotamia. Carol stood still and red-faced, in the full knowledge that she was well and truly toast. How she retained her composure was beyond me, but one thing’s for sure: I would rather be cold in Enna on any day of the year, rather than be roasted by Michael in the warmth of its museum.
