Les Brocantes

Brocantes (something akin to jumble sales or car-boot sales with stalls) are a way of life here in rural France. How else is one supposed to get rid of all the old junk one has accumulated in the course of one’s life, or more frequently, that one’s parents have accumulated in the course of theirs?

Because, of course, everyone has ‘stuff’ that they don’t need in their homes, and in particular everyone’s parents have. It seems that in many cases the parents have moved away or died and the children are left with the task of clearing the house in order to be able to sell it or move into it. I have seen houses for sale here that are full from floor to ceiling with the detritus of the lives of the people who once inhabited them, and I quail inwardly at the thought of being in the position of having to dispose of it.

But the brocante, which is generally an open-air event, is a fixture of rural life in the summer. It is as pleasant a way as any of spending an hour or two at the weekend, going from one stall to another and inspecting what’s on offer. There is the added thrill of bargain-hunting and even bargaining, just a little, you know, not as if you’re in a market in the Middle East, but just enough, and in just enough of a friendly spirit, to leave everyone feeling content.

One can sometimes see children helping their parents as mountains of old toys are set out for disposal. I personally would not have wanted to join my parents in selling my old toys, or to have imposed such a task on my own children, but the children here seem to be quite at ease with the situation. Stalls laden with what were presumably once-beloved dolls, board games, colourful plastic objects and mechanical toys (some of which still actually work) are set out for inspection, alongside cardboard boxes full of old books, old records, old phones, old (almost antique) irons, old shoes and clothes, and any old anything, in fact.

Some stalls contain objects which were obviously once someone’s prized collection of, for example, cigarette cards, keyholders, keys or miniature china ornaments. Ir’s sometimes heartbreaking to see what was obviously once someone’s entire household, or sports prizes or albums of family photographs. Having read ‘The Hare with the Amber Eyes,’ I was once tempted by a display case full of netsuke, but restricted myself to just two. Perhaps it was foolish of me, but I have no desire to compete with Edmund de Waal, I don’t have room in my house for a display case and don’t want to start collecting things that my children will eventually have to dispose of.

The atmosphere at these events is usually upbeat, even jovial. At some of them the local municipality organizes a food stall, where grilled meat and other delicacies can be bought for a modest sum. At others I have seen beautiful crystal wine glasses going for a song, and have been unable to resist the temptation. The regional authority publishes a booklet containing the dates and venues of all the brocantes in the course of the year (there are over two hundred), and advises stall-owners to come with a companion, a folding seat, something to eat and drink, and a hat to protect against the sun (or rain, as the case may be). No single individual is allowed to participate in more than two brocantes a year, presumably to keep the event in the sphere of the amateur.

Sometimes one sees beautiful china crockery, hand-blown glass, painted vases, sets of silver cutlery and even the occasional lone ornate soup tureen, all of which were once presumably someone’s pride and joy, and are now being flogged at a fraction of their original price. But there are very few takers for these formerely precious possessions.

Prices are usually a few euros per item, so we were stunned when at one brocante an elderly man quoted sixty euros for a tool in which my husband had expressed an interest. Anything above twenty euros is considered a high price at a brocante. We declined and moved on, and left it at that. It later occurred to us that the man must have made good use of the tool during his lifetime and gave it that price in accordance with the value he attached to it. However, when at some point in the future his time comes and his children sell off his things they will probably be happy to get six euros for it.

Sic transit gloria mundi.

Reunions

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Brondesbury and Kilburn High School, Diana Eyre, Jennifer Cattermole, LSE, Nina Rimon Davis, Valerie Pedlar

Jen, me, Val and Di, outside Fortnum & Masons, London, 2006

After reading Nina’s post (http://take-ninas-word-for-it.blogspot.fr) about why she attended her high-school reunion I gave some thought to the matter.

I know for sure that I would never go to any reunion of my high school, or grammar school, as it was known then. After all, the years I spent at Brondesbury and Kilburn High School for Girls are not among my fondest memories. One made the best of one’s time there, one made friends, only to drop them as soon as one’s time as a schoolgirl ended (except for Diana, of course), and one studied for exams and passed them to the best of one’s ability in order to go on to the next stage (university, in my case). Incipient anti-Semitism amongst both teachers and pupils, my slight build, which meant that I was not very good at team sports, and my inherently rebellious character meant that I would never make a model pupil. Most of the girls in my class wanted to be housewives, secretaries or missionaries anyway.

But when the university I attended, the London School of Economics, announced a forty-year reunion for those of us who had graduated in 1964, I made every effort to attend. I had lost contact with all those who had been my friends during my three years of attendance there, mainly because I had moved to another country, but I felt a strong bond to the establishment which had given me my real start in life, enabling me to find work in such respectable establishments as the Hebrew University and the Bank of Israel, amongst others.

I was intrigued by the reunion programme, which consisted of lectures by current professors at the university, debates and cocktail parties in the old buildings, tours of the new additions, and culminating in a gala dinner at the Houses of Parliament. I suppose I hoped to meet up with people I had known in the past and catch up on our various activities. My husband was kind enough to accompany me, and so we flew to London to attend the event.

At first it was somewhat overwhelming to see all those middle-aged and elderly people milling about in the area reserved for the first gathering. There were no familiar faces, and the only person I managed to speak to in order to ask what he’d been doing since graduating replied ‘I’ve had a steady rise to obscurity.’ You can’t beat that for a conversation-killer.

But at the second gathering I did at last spy a familiar face, someone with whom I had shared many cups of coffee between lectures. I went up to her and, fortunately, she recognised me immediately. There was another friend with her who had also been part of our coffee-drinking circle, and so we immediately went off together to sit and chat in one of the nearby cafés, catch up on what we had been doing and renew our connection.

Since then we three, plus one other friend who didn’t attend the reunion, have tried to meet once a year for lunch, whenever I happen to be in London, provided, that is, I give them all sufficient notice, because, like me, they also travel a fair amount. Everyone seems to have done reasonably well, combining both family and a career of sorts, though none of us has had the stellar rise that we might perhaps have once imagined for ourselves.

But I’m glad I went to the reunion and reestablished contact with my friends from the past, and I suppose, when all is said and done, having had a steady rise to obscurity isn’t such a bad thing after all. So thanks to Val, Jen and Di, and here’s to many more lovely lunches in London!

Music in la Creuse

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ADIAM, Benevant l'Abbaye, concerts in churches, concerts in Jerusalem

Only the French have a compact term for music-lovers, les melomanes, a word that combines melody with mania. There is an element of truth in that, I must confess, as is proved by the fact that when on holiday in rural France my husband and I miss no opportunity to attend one of the rather rare classical music concerts that are given there. Of course, when we’re in our home base in Jerusalem we are regular participants in several concert series, and would hate to find ourselves without at least one concert a week.

With time and annual visits has come the realisation that in the region of central France where we tend to spend our summers in order to escape the heat in Israel a series of vocal concerts, known as ‘The Voice of Summer,’ (Voix d’Eté) is given. These are held in various churches around the region, many of which date back to the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and still preserve a great number of their original decorative features. The architecture is generally romanesque, though there are also several gothic churches, and the acoustics of these structures tends to enhance the effect of the human voice. Information about the concerts, which are organized by ADIAM, the cultural arm of the regional government, is available at any local tourist office.

The artists who perform at these concerts are many and varied, though on the whole they are French even if they perform music of a different culture, such as Irish folk music. But we have also had the good fortune to attend concerts given by the magnificent choir of Kings College, London, an excellent Russian youth orchestra accompanying an amazing coloratura soprano, and sundry others. We are not always enamoured of the choice of program and singers (one evening of Corsican folk music is more than enough), but when the program and the artists are up to scratch the experience can be dazzling.

A couple of years ago we were privileged to hear a performance of Handel’s Messiah (sung in English by a French choir and soloists), to mark the inauguration of a magnificent organ in the church at Benevant l’Abbaye. The organ, supplementing the orchestra, gave the performance an added dimension which greatly enhanced the music. Usually, however, the performances are not on such a large scale, and the ensembles often consist of two or three artists who sing and play portable instruments. We have also been privileged to attend concerts of ancient music, demonstrating the skill and ability of many of the performers, who are almost always of a very high professional standard.

One novel feature of the ‘Voice of Summer’ concerts is the seating arrangement. Churches are not known for their comfortable seats, and often the audience finds itself sitting on hard wooden benches. Consequently, anyone who regularly attends these events comes equipped with a cushion. In addition, the seats at the front are reserved for privileged guests (usually local dignitaries) and anyone who has a subscription for all six or seven concerts of the series. Upon entering and presenting one’s ticket one is duly ushered to one’s privileged seat at the front.

We have come to recognise the other subscription buyers, and politely acknowledge one another, though refrain from the customary French kissing ritual upon meeting friends and acquaintances. This is just as well, as one gentleman, whose name we do not know, is known to us as ‘Mr. Garlic-Breath,’ and we try to avoid sitting close to him, if possible. Another habitué is ‘Mr. Bushy Beard,’ who also happens to be very tall, so it is advisable not to be sitting behind him.

On the whole, the French audience is very well-behaved, and refrains from coughing, sneezing or talking during the performance, and also applauds enthusiastically after each piece. I have never yet heard a mobile phone ring during a concert in la Creuse, though this is sadly almost a regular incident in concerts in Israel.

Concerts in rural France are definitely an added bonus to our annual holiday, and I for one do not intend to miss a single one.

Monuments Men

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Braque, Matisse, Monuments Unit, Picasso, Robert Edsel, WWII

The Ghent altarpiece, one of the treasures stolen by the Nazis and retrieved by the Monuments Unit

My sister Ruth told me about this book after reading what I had written a few weeks ago about Anne Sinclair’s book (21 Rue la Boetie). It’s funny how things seem to connect with one another, but it turns out that the two books are on similar subjects, albeit from different angles. And both are linked to two subjects that have been fascinating me for quite some time — art, on the one hand, and the Second World War, on the other. Ruth had a version in Hebrew, but I preferred to read it in the original language.

So I ordered the book (‘Monuments Men’ by Robert Edsel) from Amazon, and found that once I started reading it I simply couldn’t put it down. Quite simply, it tells the tale of the special Allied unit set up during the Second World War whose job it was to protect the architectural and historic monuments and art treasures of Europe, both from the retreating German forces and from the advancing Allies. In addition, their mission also involved tracing and finding the art treasures of Europe that had been pillaged by the Germans and hidden in mines, castles, marshes and sundry other places throughout Germany and Austria. These also involved many treasures stolen from Jews (Anne Sinclair’s family, among others), and a few years ago the German government organised an exhibition of some of these unclaimed items, which later went on display at other sites around the world, including the Israel Museum in Jerusalem.

According to Edsel, it all stemmed from Hitler’s desire to establish a museum in the Austrian town of Linz, his birthplace, that would house all the art treasures of Europe and outshine the vast treasurehouse museums of Paris, Florence, Rome, etc. In addition, fancying himself as something of an artist and an architect himself, he planned to rebuild Linz as a splendid urban site, and spent hours with his architect, Albert Speer, discussing the plans and inspecting the scale model of the city. If Hitler’s megalomaniac ideas had come to fruition not only would the entire character of Europe have changed, so would the face of world art.

For we know that the Nazis had firmly-entrenched ideas about what constituted ‘acceptable’ and ‘degenerate’ art — all Impressionist, post-Impressionist, Cubist and Expressionist art falling into the latter category. In Paris as well as in Germany many works of art by artists such as Picasso, Braque, Matisse and others were burned. Many others were used as currency in transactions of various kinds or secreted in hiding places to be extracted at a later stage. Of course, we mustn’t forget the cupidity of the Nazi leaders, and Hermann Goring, in particular, who appropriated art from every possible source in order to aggrandize his own private collection, which he housed in his various opulent domiciles in Germany and Austria.

So the small group of former museum employees and art specialists who comprised the ‘Monuments Unit’ were faced with a daunting task. In addition, they were not provided by the army with the equipment (support vehicles, office facilities, etc.) that would have made their task easier, often found themseves in dangerous parts of the war theatre and had to manage their affairs by being resourceful and determined.

Robert Edsel researched the subject for thirteen years, interviewing many of the individuals involved, managing to obtain private correspondence sent by many of them to their families back home and tracing the sequence of events with admirable application and perseverance. His book, which was published in 2010, reads like a detective story, and indeed much of the work of the unit involved work very like that of a detective, tracing the individuals connected with the Germans’ involvement in managing existing museums and stealing their contents. Just the packing and transportation of the works by the Germans (and later by the Monuments unit) involved an enormous amount of resourcefulness and organisation.

Fortunately, the Germans pedantically listed and catalogued their activities in this sphere, and it was possible, as the war ground to an end in 1945, to get hold of most of these, making the task of the Monuments unit slightly easier. Some former Nazi officials were prepared to cooperate in bringing the art treasures back into the public domain, though others were not. One was even prepared to fulfil Hitler’s ‘Nero decree’ (scorched earth policy) into operation and prepared to blow up one of the mines containing priceless works of art. This plan was foiled by other Germans, but only by a hair’s breadth.

The dedication and fortitude of the men of the unit, most of them accustomed to the stale air of libraries and museums rather than the battlefield, is something that must be admired, and it is to Robert Edsel’s great credit that he has brought their story out into the light of day.

Paris

Ah, Paris, Paree. City of art. City of lights. City of tourists.

Yes, tourists, there’s the rub. The beautiful city is swarming with them, they are everywhere, clogging the sidewalks, forming queues in front of museums, and crowding the restaurants and cafes. Paris is the tourism capital of the world and one can hardly take a single step without hearing a plethora of languages, from Russian to Korean, from Dutch to Polish and Roumanian, and back again.

So what is an innocent visitor who does not want to define herself as just any old tourist, and who wishes to see some of the wonderful works of art that are to be found in the city, to do? One possibility is to avoid the Louvre and the Orsay museums, entry to both of which requires standing in line for at least half an hour. That still leaves plenty of places of interest that are not so popular and seem to be less well-known. Paris abounds in museums, both large and small, not to mention its other monuments, churches, and historic sites.

One of the most superb museums is the Pompidou Centre, which houses art dating from the twentieth century. Better still, it is open almost every day until 10 at night. It’s fairly crowded, admittedly, but it still provides a far better viewing experience than the two aforementioned  museums, where one can barely get a glimpse of the scores of van Goghs, Cezannes, Manets and Monets there because of the throng surrounding them. The Pompidou Centre houses seminal works by Picasso, Braque, Soutine, Modigliani and many others. Not to mention a huge collection of Surrealist and Dada art. An experience not to be missed.

Any Parisian with any sense, and the wherewithal, too, of course, abandons the city in the summer months and goes to the south of France, or even the centre of the country, where the tourists are not quite so thick on the ground. Of course, the inhabitants of those regions are less than happy with the invasion by ‘northerners’ and tend to regard them with disapproval and even remove themselves elsewhere (provided their livelihood is not dependent on the seasonal arrivals).

So in the summer Paris belongs to the tourists and those who serve them, namely, Algerian taxi-drivers, African souvenir-sellers, Italian restaurateurs, Chinese waiters and sundry street-sweepers, hotel clerks, and the occasional native French person who probably just oversees the rest.

But if the sun is shining (and even if it’s not) Paris can’t be beat for the joy of just walking its splendid boulevards, admiring its architecture, trying to read the plaques that abound recounting the historic events that took place there or the important people who lived there. Or just to sit in a cafe and enjoy a pastry and a cup of coffee. I can recommend the strawberry tartlets, which are at their delicious best in the summer months.

Another sign of the times is that more and more Parisians seem to be prepared to try to communicate in English. For someone who likes to think that she has a certain command of French (i.e., me) it is a bit disappointing to get a reply in English, or what a French person considers to be English, to a query expressed in what I suppose must be somewhat laborious or perhaps even outdated French. Ah, well, I’ll just have to keep trying, I suppose.

A cruise on the Seine can also be fun, though tourists are the only consumers of that particular item (you have to queue for that, too). Recorded explanations in French, English and Spanish accompany the one-hour ride, recounting the history of the buildings one sees and the bridges under which one passes. If the weather is fine, that can be a lovely experience.

One word of warning. Avoid eating in bistros near the main tourist sites. These tend to be pricey and the food they serve is often of sub-standard quality. Of course, the poor waiters and waitresses are run off their feet, and one can also waste a lot of time waiting to be served. Often enough the food isn’t even worth waiting for either. However, if one makes a little effort, tired feet permitting, of course, and goes slightly off the beaten track to the side streets which are just a little bit away from the crowded main thoroughfares, one can find little cafes and restaurants where real Parisians (the ones that haven’t left, that is) go for lunch and dinner, and where the food is good and not so expensive.

So get your walking shoes and take a few days to explore Paris, the city of endless delights, even for tourists. But don’t forget to watch out for muggers on the Metro.