Not Nice

This morning I took an early commuter train to Menton, which sits on the Italian border and, architecturally, seems much more like northern Italy than southern France.  The plan was to visit the Jean Cocteau museum, then spend some time exploring the town.

In 1981 I stumbled upon a private gallery on the left bank in Paris selling a selection of original Jean Cocteau works.  It was probably a little inappropriate a teenager without any money wandering in, but I went in to look regardless, and I bought the promo poster for posterity (and it hangs, framed, in the den at home).  About 20 years later, on a European trip for an F1 event, Stephen’s dad visited the Cocteau museum and brought us back a souvenir plate.  I found out today they retail now for about 150 Euros!

I’m not sure why I was so fascinated with Cocteau back in the day.  I wouldn’t lift a finger to watch his movies now, but back in London, in the early 80s, when I was young and broke and the Tate showed free films once a week, I lined up well in advance to see each and every one when they scheduled a retrospective.

Maybe I was fascinated with him because he knew and hung around with everyone in the creative world like a Warhol pre-Warhol.  He new Dietrich and Piaf.  He was best friends with Colette.  He sketched, drew, collaborated, he wrote plays, he made movies.  He hung with Josephine Baker, boxer Al Brown, trapeze artist Barbette.

 

So, in keeping with Because France, and although I’d been online in advance to check, when I get to the museum it’s actually closed.  Like fenced and barricaded closed.  There’s a sign on the door noting that when Storm Adrian (sic) hit on the 29^th of October 2018, “submersive waves” caused major damage to the lower level of the museum.  I should have called this blog post sumbersive waves.  That’s a great title for an album.  Hey Taylor…

 

The collection is still available to see, at a “temporary” site in an old fort.  So I walked over, and at the front I asked if they would ever renovate the original site, given it’s been six years, but all I got was a shrug.  When pressed, one of the staff volunteered that there was “too much arguing with the insurance.” 

 

I basically had the museum to myself, and relished in the privacy and quirkiness of what was on display.

Nijinsky and Dhagliev; Colette (his best friend, some way to render her personality!); the Group of Six theatre troupe; the Group of Six logo; movie poster; Piaf

Afterwards I wandered the seaside promenade.  There was a marathon going on; I watched several contenders finish to great acclaim.  Then I wandered the old town, quite hilly, and popped into a few shops.  The whole town was sepia, reminiscent of Siena, with narrow cobblestones, uneven steps and feral cats.

There is both a prettiness to Menton as well as a better than thou vibe.  A little Tofino, a little West Vancouver.  A little Cotswolds, a little Holland Park.  That sort of thing.

The train west was crowded.  No surprise.  Lovely Cote d’Azur views around every corner though.

Commuter trains back to Nice, or west from Menton run twice an hour all day.  Except for the one hour I wanted to catch the train.  So I took a coffee in a local boulangerie; it was 11:30 and they were sold out of croissants so I had to go without. Such problems.

 

About half noon I finally caught a local westbound train and took it all the way to Antibes.  The train was packed, but for some reason, coming and going, a huge amount of passengers alight (and board) at Monaco.

Antibes has the largest marina in Europe (space for 1500 boats).  But when I write boats I really mean yachts.  And when I write yachts I really mean some major coin is moored here.

Afterwards I wandered the old town a bit and headed towards the Picasso museum.  What’s unique about this site (as opposed to, say, the Picasso museum in Paris) is that it originated with Pablo spending a year in Antibes in the 1940s then afterward donating dozens of paintings and drawings to the City.  Also of note is that the paints Pablo used were only what he could buy at the hardware store, the same colours fishermen painted their boats with, a palette of 12 colours. 

This was the first museum with a line-up.  A long line.  Hannah Gadsby, apparently, had no impact on the public infatuation with Picasso.

The visit included a whole floor with a selection of Miro.  Miro all from a private collection!  You can Google the details, but the art on loan was courtesy of the Nahmad Collection, which isn’t an organization or a non-profit or a museum, just two brothers originally from Lebanon; their private collection of art is estimated to be worth between seven and eight billion (!) dollars; and they have, according to Christie’s, the distinction of selling more art than anyone alive; just as part of their collection they home 5,000 artworks in a duty-free building near Geneva airport; their 300 Picasso’s alone are estimated to be valued at a billion dollars.  You get the drift.

Fortunately, the Juan Miros (stunning, just absolutely stunning) were not of as much interest to the hordes as the Pablos.  But what a treat.

Given the concise timeframe of the Picassos on display, what’s unique about the collection is how similar and connected all the pieces are.  There’s no experimental cubist drawing indistinguishable from, say, Braque, like you see in curated public collections.  But there’s also a strong sense of place and a link to locale.

There is also an Absinthe Museum in Antibes (which turns into an absinthe bar after hours) and a postcard museum.  But it was getting late and the humidity was wearing me down.  After the museum I wandered around Antibes some more (not as charming or alluring as Menton, but still quintessentially the Cote d’Azur), then caught a train back.  A TGV rolled into the station unexpectedly; without a stop between Antibes and Nice, it’s 11 minutes tops station to station.