aix and pains

 

THE CULTURE THRUST this autumn was brought on by a vague aspiration, when showed a poster in a street some place, (Bonnard Et Le Japon) to use the excuse of visiting a Bonnard show in Aix, to break out and stop being so bloody parochial. Then when Prof Hickman – with whom I have enjoyed exchanging nuggets of wisdom of late, interspersed with examples of inperpitude (on my part) – as I was saying, when Hickman suddenly decided he wanted to see the show again (a second time) and would come from Paris, on the TGV, day return, for heaven’s sake, it was all firmed up and the day and date fixed in stone by the necessary securement by John of his first class day return some months in advance! It has been a fixture for a while but fair dos to John, he didn’t hold our feet to the fire on it, and we did want to see him again this year, and Pierre Bonnard in Aix, well why wouldn’t you, Aix being a mere 90 minutes away from Sablet? You been there? It is a town-and-a-half!

We went. We met up as planned and JH was clearly both very well acquainted with Aix, fond of it as well and ready for another long look at the particular take on this post-impressionist’s output, associated as it has been with the influences of Japanese art and print-making in particular.

The exhibition was a bit of a scrum. Far more punters than had been anticipated. And I was up the creek with leg pain, numbness and the jolly old pins and needles. I thought I would have to cry off within ten minutes of entering the exhibition. Mary found me a pouffe to perch on in the mêlée which I rested on until shoved off it by a witch, by which time I had recovered enough sensation in my legs to know I might hobble around the show after all, and did so without too much further difficulty, although all of the viewing was coloured by discomfort, right up and until we finally emerged, reached the head of the queue, and got shown ‘our’ table in the rather grand garden restaurant of the gallery for us dinners. Hickman wanted a garden table but that entailed a further thirty-five minute wait… so we settled for a table in a magnificently decorated interior salon (in wedgewood blue and white, rococco style). Civilised. If a little OTT.

Impeccable table service and the most exquisite salad dishes I think I may have ever tasted. We concurred. Splendid. And John wangled (after similar good tarts and a bit of pleading) our coffee out in the garden courtyard, a lovely space filled with rather splendid people and dashing service providers. Genteel! No plastic chairs neither. My God, I have almost forgotten the pleasure of having decent food and decent wine and decent chat and decent service at an almost decent price without pressure or overtone. A glimpse of another life! Albeit where denim jeans, shirts even,  are in the ascendency, to which I modestly subscribe.

I was a bit challenged of course by the hearing issue but there Prof Hickman goes before: I am sure we exchanged views at times that failed to connect as intended but what the hell. John suffered the ignominy of being asked to pipe down a tad  by an attendant, in the hubbub of the gallery rooms when he was extolling the virtues of Bonnard’s affections for his muse and later his wife (Bonnard’s that is, stay with me) as seen in the paintings set before us. Didn’t bother John! He is the consumate Bonnard enthusiast, after all. Polite smile, one raised eyebrow, where was I, what was I saying……

After we had settled up then (après our menus de jour, I'm back there now) and we made to leave the Hotel de Caumont we noted absolute droves, round-the-block hordes, clamouring and surging to get into the presence of the Bonnards in the Bonnard show, in its final day or two. We shuddered. Glad we made it the morning call.

We left them to it. John went off to see his brother-in-law,  resident in Aix whilst we, the Sablet contingency, went off to set free the motor from the underground car park so that we could ride back along the A7 toll to Vaucluse and 84110.

So that was our trip to Aix en Provence. We drove through to the middle and the car park most adjacent to Hotel de Caumont (the gallery) and returned therefrom. No mooching the streets, no post show coffees and cakes, no revisiting the churches, streets, fountains and the boulevards. Lovely views of Montagne-Ste-Victoire on the way in of course. What is the matter with us? Well I think the gallery experience was plenty this time, Aix is not unknown to us from the past but seemed a whole lot busier than heretofore, with those weird electric buses in their exclusive lanes and all.

So we passed up the Aix reaquaintancing this time. Pity.

What was the show like then, I hear you cry! The show was well produced, properly supported by back up notes and observations. The paintings were generously accessible. The rooms were rather small for this sort of exhibition but not inordinately so. But oh dear, too many people, too many smart phones and too little looking. I am not a fan of the current surge for art. I suspect it. Doubt it. Think it is box ticking, often. etcetera. Sorry. Didn’t invest in the catalogue either, to add to the others that gather dust forever after.

Pierre Bonnard was the first post impressionist to (hem hem) 'blow my mind'. I visited and drank in the extensive retrospective of Bonnard’s work, in particular his bathing paintings, at the Royal Academy of Arts in 1966. I was but a foundation first year arts student, and was captivated. I wrote my first extended essay as required by art schools still, in those days, on our Pierre. What aspect of his output– I cannot recall. That’s why Hickman’s enthusiasm (commitment too, he is a patron of Bonnard’s home gallery after all) rang bells with me also. At the show I saw in ’66 Bonnard had not yet been in his grave twenty years: he was almost current! Hickman was up in Manchester finishing his first degree incidentally round about then m'thinks. 

Since then PB may have slipped in my ratings somewhat, when ranged amongst his more formidable predecessors and contemporaries. But never for colour and atmosphere, obsession and love, even. I think some of his work is less than successful, unfinished, unresolved etc. But he is still division one, without a doubt. And I still love many many of his bathing paintings. I’m not a scholar of PB, I’ve forgotten most of what I knew of him once. I’ve not sought him out either. So this show slightly disappointed me but also gave up some thrills. Your author is not going to produce a critique here though, get out of it, find some other sucker! If you can get to see some Bonnard, take the chance. Always: if you’ve the time and energy these days, which might be quite a big ask.  

Here endeth the rant. And also my favourite canvas in the show, by a short margin, below.  And Professor H lives in the environs of the Bonnard scene, left… as you do… that's in Paris of course, Port (or is it Place?)  de Clichy I understand. 

Thanks for popping down, John. Good move!