Fondation Maeght
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| If you feel dread now, imagine being born in the Middle Ages. These 60-foot ramparts protecting St. Paul de Vence were meant to keep marauders from killing you and stealing your stuff. "Man above, beasts below" went the saying in these perched villages. |
A lady in an electric wheelchair asked me to help her into her apartment building yesterday. It was a multistep process communicated in French. First, she handed me her keys.
"No, no, not the small key. Use the RFID tag."
The door popped open.
"Now go inside and attach the chain to the door to hold it open."
On the sidewalk she was standing on one leg now, bracing herself against her chair.
"Inside, against the wall, are my crutches. Thank you, thank you."
Grabbing a handle, she slid the battery out of her chair and instructed me to take it to the second floor and place it par la porte a droite. She repeated this a couple of times but was patient and encouraging. She was cheering me on.
"I will wait here."
When I returned, there was a final step: She wanted me to roll her wheelchair into the foyer and align it next to a wall so that it is out of the way. It was a tight fit and her chair scraped against the door frame.
"Doucement, doucement!" (softly, softly!), she said.
"Hey! Je connais cette chanson!"
Her laugh earned my eternal gratitude. By referencing the Henri Salvador song, I had made a small joke in French. Kill me now.
She inquired about my nationality and implored me to enjoy my vacation, bidding a warm goodbye.
Under the umbrella pines outside St. Paul de Vence is the Fondation Maeght. If you are not on an organized tour or are committed to going car-free in Provence, you will have to make the steep climb on foot.
Like an alien welcoming you to his world, Joan Miro's "Personnage" (1970) greets visitors at the entrance.
The private collection of Aime and Marguerite Maeght, art dealers in Cannes, formed the basis for the museum, which opened in 1964. Cowled roofs ensure that the bright Mediterranean sunlight is softened before indirectly filtering into the galleries. The building was designed by Spanish architect Josep Lluis Sert.
Unless I missed something, the permanent collection is entirely from the 20th century.
Considering our setting, this classic country outing as reimagined by Fernand Leger in "La Partie de Campagne" (1954) is parfait.
Chagall's dizzying "La Vie" (1964) announces itself from a distance with its swirling themes of parenthood, fellowship and community.
An untitled ceramic by Normandy-born Leger practically jumps off the wall.
Gratifyingly, the Belgian artist Jean-Michel Folon gets some wall space. He began his career as a cartoonist and died in Monaco in 2005. I wonder if he knew Saul Steinberg, or vice versa.
George Braque (the fish and bottle guy) has his own room. I spent many a drowsy afternoon in the Modern Languages auditorium gazing at his slides.
Miro has a room and an outdoor area devoted to his sculptures.
In the gardens, one of Miro's little horned teletubby sculptures keeps a couple company.
The Spaniard's "L'Oiseau Lunaire" (1968).
While a sleeping cat gets attention, Giocometti's "walking men" stalk the grounds as if they, too, had paid admission.
"La Chat" (1951) prowls in front of photos of the Swiss sculptor at work.
Will you look at this 1963 screen by Chagall? Goodness. St. Paul de Vence appears to be depicted in the second panel.
The Philadelphian Alexander Calder grabbed me by the lapels with this series of discs ("Sunday in the Garden," 1974) ...
... and with his "The Two Eyes" (1974).
Outside is a small chapel devoted to the Maeghts' son, who died at 11. The Christ altarpiece is from the 12th century(!). The stained glass window is by Braque.
But after a night's sleep and looking back at these photos, it's clear that the concept of "high art" laid a trap for me. Above all, the Fondation Maeght is a tribute to the youthful ingenuity that characterized the 1950s through '70s. One should be able to rent a child for these outings, bring them to a gallery and watch their responses. Game recognizes game.
If Chagall, Braque, Miro and Calder teach us anything, it's that the art of creation isn't necessarily a serious business. Cartoonists like Folon have always known this. To some extent all of them are playing a kid's game, each with their peculiar flourishes. They are making brightly colored mobiles and wire animals.
The lady in the wheelchair, for instance. I didn't get her number, but there's somebody who appreciates a joke.
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