Mougins/ Rothschild Villa/ Villa Kerylos. 12 August.

MOUGINS

On this new day, I visited a couple of places that I wasn't especially keen on, but I still kept an open mind. This ended up to my benefit because I really enjoyed all of them. 

The first town to visit today was Mougins. It is a quiet town at the top of a hill. In addition to the few things to see, I really enjoyed the calm atmosphere of a place that seemed a bit off the beaten path. However, one great site to explore was the Museum of Classical Art. To be sure, they had a small but fine collection of ancient Greek and Roman and Egyptian art, from pottery to sculpture, along with arms and armor. However, one thing that I liked about this museum was that it had a very interesting curatorial touch. Along side this ancient works, they placed works by modern and early modern artists, such as Picasso, Warhol, and Damien Hirst, among others. 

(not my photo of classical art in Mougins.)

(not my photo of Damien Hirst's work at Mougins.)

Some people might call such a presentation eclectic; after all, how can such modern works be placed next to ancient ones? However, I approached this presentation from a completely different angle. Rather than see the difference in times and places where these works were produced, I chose to focus on the similarity in themes. That is, despite the fact that thousands of years separate these works of art, it seems to speak to something of the community in which artists place themselves. I am sure that Picasso and Hirst learned their art by studying older works of art, going all the way back to the ancient period (Well, maybe not Hirst; I think I read that he went to an art school where they didn't really care to teach him in the traditional manner, such that he didn't even have to learn how to draw; but still, I don't think that hurts my point too much). I imagine the artists working today, even, believing that they are part of a tradition that spans across all humanity, no matter the time or place. 

ROTHSCHILD VILLA

There was once a woman, Beatrice Ephrussi who married into the famously rich Rothschild family, and thus became rich herself. What she did with this wealth is build a home in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat filled with intricate ornamentation, and expansive gardens that tried to echo many different cultures. It so happens that when this rich woman died, the home was opened as a museum of sorts that tourists can come, visit, and walk through. It certainly didn't sound like my cup of tea, but the serene walk through the gardens was very pleasant and I did enjoy it. 

GREEK VILLA

In conjunction with the Rothschild house, there is another villa in Beaulieu-Sur-Mer called Villa Kerylos. This villa was bought and designed by yet another rich person, Theodore Reinach during the Belle Epoque. In contrast to the Rothschild villa, that went for a more regal and French design motif, Reinach here decided to go with Greek motifs. 

Outside the house, there was a bronze bust of the hero of Greek independence, Eleftherios Venizelos. This, paired with the plaque on Nikos Kazantakis' home in Antibes the previous day, reminded me that France was one of the great powers that played a significant role in assisting Greece in its war for independence from the Ottoman Empire. 

The interior of the home was adorned with Greek replica sculptures, columns, and mosaic floors. 

However, it was clearly a modern place where a wealthy phil-Hellene lived. 

However, it was on the basement level where I was most impressed. There is a narrow corridor that seems to follow the outline of the property, but being this lower level, the windows gave a view right on the sea level. This basement, although with larger than life sculptures of classical figures, was not especially adorned with other ornamentation like the upper level was. 

(not my photo of ancient Greek sculptures and Villa Kerylos)

Instead the old stone brick wall was exposed, and I could actually imagine it being a dungeon or prison if left barren. However, along with the classical sculptures, there was also a photography exhibition lining the walls from the late 19th century. I really enjoyed seeing these photos of old Greece, only a few decades after independence, with commoners living their olden ways of life. It certainly gave a view of Greece with windmills and open fields that is far different from the Athenian sprawl of today. 

All of this love for the Greek culture reminded me of very complicated ideas regarding the current Greek nation, and its relation with the ancient culture. I don't think that it is any secret that today Greece is not doing very well, and has recently been bailed out for the third time to avoid sovereign bankruptcy. For many years I have held the controversial belief that Greece relies too much on its historical legacy, to the detriment to progressing with modernity. Venizelos and Kazantzakis, I think, were both aware of this Greek conflict between tradition and modernity, and I don't believe it has yet been resolved. I disagree with the plaque at the entrance of the Villa Kerylos, that Greece has embraced and balanced both the modern and ancient. 

Maeght Foundation and Mattisse Chapel. 11 August.

Following the scenic drive around Antibes, we headed back into the hinterlands of the south of France, away from the coast. Up in the hills it can be very peaceful, and there was a modern art museum created by the Maeght Foundation. 

(not my photo of the Maeght Foundation, perhaps because I was too tired to take photos while there.)

Along with their permanent collection (which had works by Giocometti, Calder and Miro, and the usual bunch of modern artists, etc.), they also had a career retrospective of a French artist named Gerard Garouste. 

(not my photo of one of Gerard Garouste paintings.)

I had not heard of him before, but I was curious enough to check it out. I think they are works that require a bit more of my focus and study, but in this short time I interpreted that he was trying to revive certain techniques of El Greco, especially. Certain features similar to El Greco are the fuzzy painterly methods (which might also be seen in works by Blake and Delacroix and other proto-impressionists), and the elongated figure forms. To be sure, he took this elogation several degrees further than El Greco ever did, magnifying the deformations to grotesque malformations that seemed to have hints of Dali. There are also obvious political and social commentaries in his paintings, such as Hitler's book Mein Kampf on the back of a donkey. However, I am sure that there must be more to it than these blatant symbols reflect. I think that it is often the case that such obvious use of symbols might hide deeper messages beneath the surface. 

(not my photo of one of Gerard Garouste paintings.)

I really did love the environment where this museum was housed, up in the hills surrounded by woods, with quiet and peaceful sculpture gardens that allowed me to relax in the late afternoon. 

Next we went to the Matisse Chapel. 

I had read about this place in books, and seemed fascinated by the idea that even into the 20th century, religious places were still asking world renowned artists to paint interiors. Certainly, the most famous example of this is Michelangelo painting the ceiling and back wall of the Sistine Chapel in Vatican City. Perhaps it is this tradition that still entices the imagination of artists all over the world. (In fact, a few months ago, I attended a fundraiser for a certain popular artist who, instead of waiting to be asked to paint a church or chapel, had designs to build his own sort of chapel in upstate New York; I also recall that a few years ago, my favorite living artist, Gerhard Richter, had designed a stained glass window in a church in Germany.) However, entering this small chapel that belonged to some nuns, I was very underwhelemed by a few black line drawings of standing or dancing figures (typical of Mattisse) that went from floor to ceiling. Perhaps recalling that in the Sistine Chapel, every space was covered by something, the bareness of this chapel, bareness that is only intensified by Mattisse's elegant line drawings, was a bit surprising. After reflecting on the difference between this chapel, which is used by nuns, and the Sistine Chapel, used by the College of Cardinals, the distinct bareness here is completely appropriate, and further expresses a feeling of the austere life the nuns choose to live.

(not my photo of the Mattisse Chapel, where the fierce nuns prohibited photos, perhaps so that they could sell their own.)

There were also a few stained glass windows that resembled some of the flowery effects of his earlier collages. Accompanying the exhibition were a couple of priest smocks that Mattise designed, following the same flowery motif. I imagine the nuns are grateful that Mattisse has given them a meager source of income as an arts destination that allows them to continue doing God's work.

Antibes. and more Picasso. 11 August.

From Vallauris, we took a ride to Antibes, where there is another Picasso museum. The water in Antibes was so beautiful, and many of the key sites were right along the coast, which made for a picturesque walk. However, before making it to the castle that held the Picasso museum, we had to find a parking space. By a certain alignment in the cosmos, we happened to park right near a home that was distinguished by a plaque that read that the Greek writer Nikos Kazantzakis had lived and worked there. 

This was an amazing fortune for me because Kazantzakis is my favorite modern Greek writer. I was reminded that just before turning into the town of Antibes, we saw a place called the Mediateque Albert Camus (because we had already scheduled certain things to see, we could not detour there to find out what this place was named after my favorite French writer). It so happens that Camus won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1957, and Kazantzakis was second in that voting. Later that year, as Kazantzakis lie on his deathbed (the story so goes), Camus got a message to the dying Greek writer that he believed that Kazantzakis actually deserved the prize, and not himself. 

I only tell this story to say that I love aimlessly exploring foreign towns so that I can discover happy accidents like this that are impossible to plan for. 

The Picasso museum in Antibes is housed in an old castle that had a wonderful view of the sea, and a decent sized collection of works from the period from the 50s and 60s. These works seem very much informed by his simplistic drawings, which utilize the most fundamental aspect of visual art: the line. 

(not my photo of a Picasso painting at Antibes.)

There was also a larger collection of a series of ceramic plates that Picasso created while living here. Nice enough. However, it reminds me that any decent modern art museum has a couple of Picasso works, usually from this later period in his career. 

(not my photo of a bunch of plates by Picasso.)

This also reminds me that even among the greatest of artists in history, there are very few who generated genius masterpieces throughout a long career. Picasso is not one of them. (I think Bach and Michelangelo are two of these rarified few.) As great as these later line-based works are, in my estimation these lack the genius that his earlier works of the Rose, Blue, and Cubist periods. It seems that by this point in his career, he was already regarded as the greatest living artist, so he continued to create works and make money from them, resulting in his works being in many major, medium, and minor sized museums. Indeed, some of these plates seem so rushed that I wonder if Picasso wished that he had access to certain industrial technology, similar to how Warhol used screen printing technology a decade or two later. (Actually, this might be the element of genius in Warhol that I have been searching to discover for so many years; after all, if there is technology to be used, why not use it? In fact, it is postulated that Vermeer may have used an intricate machine to help him accomplish his masterpieces.) Perhaps that estimation of Picasso is a bit harsh, as there are many nice things about these works; to be sure, he didn't stoop to the level of Salvador Dali in the same era, who merely signed blank pieces of paper, pieces of paper which were lucky if his own works should appear. 

After the Picasso castle, we went to a wonderful seafood place for lunch called Mer-Sea. Of course, this is a fun pun. "Mer" is the French word for "sea." So it appears that they are merely placing the French version of the word next to the English version of the word. However, taken together, the sound produced by speaking "Mer-Sea" also sounds like the French word "Merci," meaning "thank you," which all good restauranteurs say out of gratitude for their customers. I like this kind of creativity and wit in places. By the way, the cod fish plate with great garnishes I ate was delicious. The fish was not overwhelemed by excessive oil, and the garnishes were cooked to perfectly compiment the focus of the dish. What else can I say except that all the food that I eat here in Cote d'Azur is great. 

Before leaving Antibes, we drove around the coast, and into Cap-Antibes (the cape, or promontory of Antibes), which was beautiful. It seems to be a nice feature of French law that all beaches are to remain open to the public. That means that no matter how ritzy and rich some area is, anyone can go there to enjoy the beach, and no matter how wealthy some hotel might be, it cannot claim exclusive access to the beach. I wish other places around the world implemented similar laws.  

Vallauris and Picasso Pottery. 11 August.

The second day in Cote d'Azur was a very full one. Many surrounding cities were explored. 

The first city was Vallauris. This was a very quaint town that has been known through the ages for its production of ceramics, pottery, and such. There was one interesting building that seems that it had been there from ancient times, and where pottery has been made since then. I think it is amazing that people are still performing similar practices as people were thousands of years ago. It me feel that all of humanity is connected or related. 

It so came to pass that Pablo Picasso spent several years in this town in the mid to late portion of his career, and perhaps inspired by the city's traditional craft, created a large series of ceramic dishes, pots, and vases.

(Not my photo of Picasso's potery)

It was interesting to see this artistic tradition that goes back thousands of years being examined, explored, and exercised by a modern artist. It reminds me that artists, even modern artists that seem incomprehensible to some, actually do work with these past traditions in mind. In fact, besides this small foundry where Picasso worked, there was also a Picasso museum in Vallauris that is devoted to his body of pottery and ceramic work. 

However, besides Picasso's pottery, there was also a large mural that Picasso had completed here called "War and Peace." 

(not my photos of "War and Peace," since photography was not allowed, and Carabinieri were there to prevent photo-taking.)

In this mural, which spreads across every surface of the room except the floor, he expresses a view of peoples at war, and on the opposing wall, a view of people at peace. As a whole, the mural was interesting enough, and a clear example of this period of Picasso's work that is very informed by line drawings and strict borders between figures. I remember one thing Picasso said about his art that went something like this: "You, the viewer, focus on the central image of the painting, but we artists create the whole work only so that we can do the most important thing to us, which we place in the small corner of the work." So, looking at one corner of "War and Peace," I found what I took to be the most significant element in the whole room. It was a figure on the "War" half of the mural, who was carrying a shield and spear. On the shield, a dove, a symbol of peace, flies with him, and with his spear, he also holds the scales of justice.

(not my photos of "War and Peace," since photography was not allowed, and Carabinieri were there to prevent photo-taking.) 

The dove reminds me of the nonsensical paradox that is so frequently spewed, "To have peace, you must prepare for war." This, of course, is often spoken by states with the largest militaries, and who are constantly at war (such as the United States), while the most peaceful states on earth hardly have any military at all (such as Bhutan). 

The scales of justice reminded me that the most war-mongering states in history have always appealed to a sense of justice in order to wage war. That is, they typically say something like, "We are fighting the good fight." This is certainly impossible, however. If everyone is fighting for good, then there cannot be any bad guys. Perhaps Picasso is trying to ask us that even if you think you are the good guys, the other side certainly thinks otherwise, so therefore, how do you know that you are actually the good guys? It seems impossible to be so sure that you are on the side of justice, unless of course, you are the ones who are not fighting. Perhaps the only way to be surely on the side of justice is to not kill at all. 

Cannes, France. 10 August.

Continuing our brief foray into the Riviera, we drove from Cinque Terra, through the Italian Riviera, and into the French Riviera, finally settling in Cannes, France. Of course, I wasn't driving, but I understand the stresses of driving unfamiliar roads. But even still, it was quite exhausting when a drive that I had heard was going to be about two hours turned into four hours, and then six hours before we finally reached the rental apartment, and got a chance to rest. Perhaps it would have taken much, much less time if the traffic was smoother, but at many points along the way (mostly toll gates), there was very heavy traffic. I can imagine that we were not the only people heading to Cannes in August for a holiday. Even once we got off the highway, we were very surprised to find that the main street was filled with cars on a one-lane street that had stop lights every 30 meters or so. 

Perhaps it was the long car ride, and that which I interpreted as kitschy environment, but it all seemed like a bad version of Miami when I walked around La Croisette, a long stretch of road where there were several very upscale hotels and many more small boutiques that catered to high-priced clientele on one side of the street, and the beach on the other side. Although I don't count myself amongst the high spenders, I don't mind walking around such extravagant places and window shopping (Beverly Hills or 5th Ave come to mind). However, there were a few things that signaled this area as more kitschy than extravagant. One obvious example were the obnoxious expensive cars. (To be sure, it is not that they were obnoxious, or that they were expensive, but that they were obnoxious and expensive.) It is not startling to see such cars driving in these kinds of places, like Lamborghinis or Rolls Royces or Bentleys. However, all good sense of taste goes out the window when the Bently is painted bright red, or the Rolls Royce is blue and gold. I couldn't quite understand who would have such a car that made no sense, but then when I saw the Kuwait license plate, it seemed to come together in my mental schema. 

In any case, the only thing that seemed half-way decent about this portion of La Croisette was the Palais des Festivals et Congress. This is the theatre that plays as the centre of the Cannes Film Festival. While the film festival was not playing now, they are having some sort of exhibition on Michel Gondry that I might be interested in seeing. 

Walking west along La Croisette, we soon came to the dock where many big, small, and medium sized boats were parked. I always like walking along boat docks because I have a secret affinity for being on a boat in the open sea, and even sailing around the world (this secret affinity I have despite my tendency to get motion sickness (which I remarked when driving through the windy mountain roads)). At this end of La Croisette, the mood was much more subdued and calm, without the beach restaurants pumping out dance music as they were on the east side of La Croisette.

For dinner, the best oyster restaurant in Cannes was chosen, Astoux et Brun. I don't often eat raw oysters, and I didn't know what exactly to expect, but I do eat raw seafood regularly. It was wonderful. 

I really like the slight seasoning that they add to the oyster, such as a touch of lemon or oil, but nothing was added to take away from the taste of the food itself. Even the snails were unexpectedly good. I say "unexpectedly" because the only other time that I had snails at a French restaurant in New York, I was overwhelmed, not by the snails, but by the excessive butter that they had felt necessary to drown out the natural flavors. At Astoux et Brun, they allowed all of the flavor of the snail to be at the forefront, and thus gave a much more pleaing experience.  

Cinque Terra. 9 August.

We decided to do a bit of Riviera sightseeing for the next few days. Going north, our first stop was Cinque Terra, a commune of five villages on the coastline. They are a bit remote, and difficult to get to. The first long leg of the drive was from Tuscany to La Spezia. however, from La Spezia, most of the road takes us into the hills and is very windy. This reminded me of why I don't like windy mountain roads. I felt my face become pale, and I became scared that the filling breakfast I ate earlier that morning might come up (They, being Italian, do not partake in breakfast beyond a cup of cappuccino). 

It so happened that we were staying at the second of the third of the five villages, Corniglia. 

I was happy to finally arrive, and took advantage of the restaurant that was part of the apartments we were staying in. I quickly excused myself from the rest of the group and walked down to the outdoor seating and asked for a large water. The view from this spot was the open sea, which seemed endless beyond the light haze that covered the sky. 

When the rest of the group felt more settled in the apartment and joined me, I had a light caprese salad with lettuce, tomato and mozzarella. After regaining some energy, we decided to explore a bit. 

Because it was ridiculously hot, instead of taking the five hour walking trail that connects all of the five towns, we walked down a zigzag series of steps that took us to the train station. Since the rail line traveled along the coast, I decided to take a short detour to the beach in order to feel the sea on my skin. 

However, there wasn't much of a beach here, only a collection of large rocks that were stopped by a large stone wall that kept the rail line a several meters above the actual coastline. Some people found lying on the rocks to be refreshing, but I didn't, so after soaking in the sight, I climbed the steep steps back up to the train that took us to the first of the Cinque Terra, Rio Maggiore. 

After disembarking from the train, along with everyone else, we had to walk down a long tunnel cut through the mountain that led us to the town centre. I imagined that my more claustrophobic friends may have felt terribly trapped in this narrow passageway where everyone was dripping sweat, and rubbing shoulders as we walked. When we finally arrived at the town centre, we learned that the village is arranged in such a way that there are more narrow paths (this time open with the sky above us) with buildings keeping us going in either of two directions: up or down. 

Wanting to see more of the sea, we (along with everyone else) had to take a narrow series of stairways up and around the hills until we arrived at a small dock with many small rowboats, and where scorched tourists transformed into an improvised swimming spot. In order to get the obligatory photo of the key sight (after all, without a photo, I haven't really been at the place, right?) we had to hike one last series of narrow stairways and wait our turn to click the camera. Then we walked back. 

There didn't seem to be anything of particular significance to see back in the town center, unless one might have become enchanted by the buildings with colorful plaster accented by certain spots where the plaster began to crumble away. 

In any case, such enchantment (if I had it at all) wore off quickly, and so I sat and drank something to cool me off while waiting for the train back to Corneglia. 

The weather had cooled off a bit by then, and so after hiking back up the winding steps I originally descended (there was the option of a bus, but I felt like the short hike would be just as quick), I took a nap with the window open, looking upon the rolling sea. 

It so happens that Corniglia is the only of the Cinque Terra that is not right on the sea, but rather elevated and sitting on top of a cliff. I don't know if that is the reason, but it is also the least popular and least inundated with tourists of the Cinque Terra. This made walking around Corniglia before dinner much more pleasant and calm. 

It did not feel so much like a tourist trap that Rio Maggiore did. The wonderful place where we had dinner was called Cantina De Mananan. 

(Not my photo of Cantina de Mananan)

They specialized in seafood, with an interesting twist. They did not serve a lot of the typical expensive seafood that one might expect at a high-end restaurant, but instead decided to focus on working class seafood that people seem to have forgotten about (except the poor and the working class). We had anchovies, clams, scabbard fish, squid and shrimp, all locally caught, of course. The way that this was perfectly executed reminded me that it is not the tools that the artist uses that make her a great artist, but the way she uses the tools to make her art.