Light and shade in Lyon 1

I recently published an article on the pleasures of visiting the city of Lyon

http://morethanjustwine.blogspot.com/2011/02/lyon-for-weekend.html

The weather on the two days that I was there was cold, but cristal-clear, producing the kind of light that engendered these photographs and the feelings that go with them...

There is more to come, but I wish it was easier to put pages of photographs together on this particular blog format!

Photography and its effect on painting

The invention of photography, in the middle of the 19th century, caused many painters to consider that this signed the end of their art. When he saw the first daguerrotype, the French painter Paul Delaroche said this: "As from today, painting is dead!" Painters whose work consisted of the production of life-like images to satisfy, generally, the egos of their customers, could see that photography was a far more efficient and inexpensive way of achieving this. Another commentator of this period had this to say: "Photography is so rigourously true to optical reality that it is likely to destroy individual conceptions of beauty."

This last remark was proved to be very wrong, as was soon shown by the work of the impressionists who went inside immediate, superficial vision to invistigate how images, and particularly colours and shapes, are perceived by the eye and the brain. And many art movements since then have taken this much further. As for aesthetics, or perceived beauty, we have since seen just how much this lies in the eye of the beholder (or, to be more cynical and in respect to some contemporary art, in the pocket of the investor), and how impossible it is to set hard-and-fast criteriae for beauty.

Lucien Freud, self-portrait (left)


It is perhaps pertinent here to remember what the contemporary painter Lucien Freud said about this question of the links between painting and perceived "reality" (my underlining in the text).

 "My object in painting pictures is to try and move the senses by giving an intensification of reality. Whether this can be achieved depends on how intensely the painter understands and feels for the person or object of his choice."



To see more of Freud's work, you can take a look here:

http://morethanjustwine.blogspot.com/2011/01/lucien-freud-and-painting.html

The "true-to-life" realism of photographic images was also critcised from the start precisely because it was too realistic. This precise reproduction of what people really saw in the world around them kind of blew apart the hypocrisy of constructed, often idealised images of what people wanted to see, as in this nineteenth century painting by Bochereau. And of course the same can often been said about portraits prior to photography, with many very notable exceptions of course.

What is very clear is that photography not only opened up new fields for painting to explore by removing the onus for slavishly realistic reproduction, but, especially with the arrival of moving photography (films, of you prefer), it also profoundly modified our very way of looking at things. Vision has never been the same since. The impressionists, like Monet, could do things like this: 

What Monet showed was that vision was a continuum that ebbed and flowed, and not a fixed snapshot. One could attempt to catch an instant of it, but that would merely provide an "impression", bacause capturing reality is an illusion. Reality is there, whether we look at it or not. All we can do is to create our impression of it and of its impact on our senses and emotions, as Lucien Freud said.

A little later, the cubists would de-construct the traditional single viewpoint to encompass many perspectives in a single painting, something later investigated, perhaps with more finesse and in another way by the English painter David Hockney. He used Polaroid images of the same subject taken from different viewpoints that were minute variations on a theme, just as one's two eyes, combined with the movements of the head, will produce small differences in the vision of a subject. Of course the brain usually irons these kinetic or stereoscopic differences out, but Hockney here shows how they can constitute a still-frame version of our habitual "movie" vision.

So is art concerned with the imitation of "real" life?

Certainly not since photography became widespread, and pretending that it should be seems to me rather like pretending that the discipline of history should consist of relating a string of known historical events. Bonnard had this to say on the subject in the early part of the 20th century: "The question is not the painting of life, but making painting come alive."

Art has to do with human imagination, and the juxtaposition of elements that may or may not be perceived directly in visual reality. The act of painting imposes choices on the painter, and these choices will constantly be confronted with the constraints of executing these decisions. This is no different from almost any form of human action. Gerhard Richter, the contemporary German painter, said this: "My paintings have no particular purpose; but, like all objects, they are their own purpose. Therefore they have no content, no signification and no meaning; they are like any other object, trees, animals, humans or the days which have no particular purpose either, no goal or reason for being there. That is the whole point. Yet there are such things as good or bad paintings!"

 

Have a smoke?

I must confess to taking this beautiful photograph from the excellent Spanish blog, 8negro.

Sometimes you get lazy, and there were quite a few rugby games to watch today. The blog in question has a series there called "smoke girls". And a lot of other good looking stuff. The link is on this page somewhere in the margin. Take a look. Bikes are another strong feature.

Carré des Feuillants, Paris

The inside courtyard that leads to the Carré des Feuillants restaurant

I am not a restaurant critic. I lack the knowledge and that hidden spark of motivation that provides an extra layer of energy so necessary to any profession, and which separates the plodders from those who do their job with love and enthusiasm, at least most of the time. I really am not a out-and-out "foodie". I enjoy tastes and textures, and all kinds of them, as varied as possible, including very simple ones. I take care with what I eat and prefer not to eat at all than eat rubbish (apart from plain survival, naturally). Yet I choose a restaurant above and beyond all for the atmosphere it contains, and for the people who run it. Going to a restaurant is to me a bit like going to someone's house. If I do not feel welcome, or at ease, then I will either leave or not go back there. Neither am I a great fan of long and formal meals. Therefore I will never wait for months for a booking to go to THAT particular restaurant, nor will I stand in line in everyday places. I would rather go elsewhere, try something else, and anyway avoid the crowds.  So you may well ask why on earth am I writing about a 2-star Michelin restaurant that is, to me, one of Paris' best, although I have not tried them all by a long chalk.

The answer is that, first and foremost, I like and greatly respect the chef behind this place, Alain Dutournier. Of course the quality of his food is quite extraordinary, generously full of flavours and those textural contrasts that are so much a part of fine cuisine. The style is modern, yet with a direct and constant link to the natural characteristics of the well-chosen ingredients he uses. Dutournier is a craftsman in the noble sense of the term. He is rarely absent from his restaurant, and, throughout his now long career, he has always sought to improve and create, whilst never denying his origins in the Landes region of South-West France. He is also a thoughtful, soft-spoken and generous man, the very anthithesis of certain super-star chefs whose heads are so swollen that they may need hats to keep them on.

The entrance area, somewhere between Armagnac and Japan

I was prompted to write this piece by a recent meal taken at the Carré des Feuillants, his restaurant near the Place Vendome that you have to seek out at the back of an internal courtyard, under the arches that line the Rue Castiglione (a touch of discretion that resembles the man himself). There was something special and unusual about this lunch, as it had been prompted by a grandson who has recently declared, aged all of 11, that his ambition is to become a chef. We all know that childhood urges often deviate from their initial path. I seem to remember that I wanted to go into the army when I was his age!  But this boy also said that what he most wanted for a Christamas present was to eat in a really good restaurant. So I decided to take him to one, and I chose Alain Dutournier's not only because I very much like the place, but I also knew that I felt up to asking the chef if he would take the boy into his kitchen and show him around. And this worked out beyond my expectations. We both left with stars in our eyes. Me on account of the fabulous succession of dishes that flowed from the "menu dégustation" that the chef prepared for us, plus the wines that he served me. I should add that Alain Dutournier is a chef, perhaps one of the rare ones, who truly loves his wine and knows more about the subject than most specialists. Paul, my grandson, was probably groggy from so much (magnificent) food, but he also had (time only will tell) received a vision of the heights to which food, and all that surrounds it, can be raised.We both just floated out of there on our clouds and clambered back down to the below-ground realities of the Paris metro.   

The Carré des Feuillants restaurant is as fine as anything that I would ever want in this department. It also has one of the world's best wine lists. If you come to Paris and like the best food and wine, served with ease  and grace in a natural, unforced way, this is the place that I would recommend. Who needs three stars anyway? We had, as I said, stars in our eyes, and they were from pure joy, not from any razzmatazz (the French would say blingbling nowadays).

www.carredesfeuillants.fr/

Ron Rash and Serena: the pioneering myth

Several people have recently encouraged me to read something by the American author (of poetry, short stories and novels) Ron Rash. I have just finished his novel entitled Serena and I can now pass on the encouragements with bells added.



Serena (which is the first name of the main female character in Rash's book) has something of the inexorably tragic and epic form that one finds in Cormac McCarthy, or in Ken Kesey's early novel, Sometimes a Great Notion, published in 1964, and made into a film by Paul Newman in 1970, in which Newman himself played the hero, Hank Stamper. Indeed the motto of the Stamper family in Kesey's book, which was "Never give an inch", could well be that of the Pemberton couple who are at the ruthless, tragic centre of Rash's novel published in 2008. And both families are involved in the logging business, albeit at different periods, in different places (Kesey's book was situated in Oregon, whereas Rash's lies in the Appalachians, on the North Carolina/Tennessee border) and at very different levels in financial terms. And they, or their characters, share something of the same blind, head-first "pioneering" spirit that has been raised to mythological status in the USA, usually to the detriment of any human sentiment or respect for the world around. I also found myself thinking of Cimino's magnificent film, Heaven's Gate.

I will not reveal any other aspects of the story, which holds you in its claws as firmly as the eagle that Serena uses to hunt rattlesnakes. I found it a strange irony that, during the time when I was reading this book, there was one of these events called "Woman's day" occuring (at least here in France). And here I was reading about a woman who behaves much like a man and who is far stronger and more redoutable than her male partner. I do hope that this is not the future for women, even if we obviously hope that they have equal rights, wages and everything else in all countries!

Ron Rash

Apart from the story and its Greek tragedy-like unfurling, the most impressive thing about Rash's writing, as shown in Serena, is his descriptive ability, including his feel for nature and the rythm of words. He mixes the terse and the eloquent with a fine sense of balance. His writing can be physical, very much rooted in the Appalachians where he lives, but with a universal scope.

"Soon the trees fell away and the men entered an old pasture. Locust fence posts still stood, draping brown tendrils of barbed wire. Milking traces were faint but visible, indenting the slantland like the wide steps of some Aztec ruin. Though wisps of fog held fast to the coves and valleys, sunlight leaned into the pasture. The air was bracing, more reminiscent of fall than spring."

But Serena is a hard story, and one that does not lose itself in descriptions of nature which is, at least here, sacrificed to the ambition of men. I will read more of Ron Rash's work.

Please read on...

Time for a rosé; and what is rosé wine ?

This rather curious photograph (I took it so I can say what I like about it) shows a bottle of Château de Sours, Bordeaux Rosé, in suspension in front of an lithograph of an rugby match in late 19th century England. The reason for this backdrop, apart from the fact that I like both the wine and rugby? Well, the owner of this winery is English, and that's about all. Let's talk about the wine.

Probably the first wines in the world were pink (or rosé) in colour, since people used to (and still do in some places) press red and white grapes together, thus producing a wine whose colour varied according to the proportions of each colour of grape. Nowadays most rosés (but not all) are made using only red grapes, which may be lightly pressed to produce a very pale pink juice, which is then fermented as a white wine. Or the grapes may be crushed and put into tanks where they macerate for a day or less, before the juice is run off and fermented without the skins. This juice will usually have rather more colour than that produced by pressing with no skin maceration. Most rosé Champagnes, which are the most expensive of all rosés, are made by blending a little red wine with white wine, all of it being from the Champagne area of course.

All the lobbying propaganda produced (mainly) by French winemakers from Provence a year or so ago about how a "real" rosé should only be made from red grapes is total bullshit, both historically, currently, and in terms of quality potential. If they were so sure of the superiority of their (multiple) techniques in terms of the quality of the wines they produced, they would have left the subject well alone. Their sadly successful lobbying was solely aimed at protecting their own short-term interests. Curiously enough, one look at many of the appellation rules that govern the production of rosé wines in France will show anyone that white grapes co-exist with red ones within the authorised lists of grapes. So you can mix grapes of two different colours but not wines of those colours? Can someone please explain to me why one practice is "superior" to the other? And most French wine journalists just swallowed all this claptrap without blinking!

Back to the wine of the week
Here we have a Bordeaux Rosé from Château de Sours, a producer which has been for years a very successful specialist of this type of wine. It is presented in a modern way with a screwcap closure, and quite rightly so as this is the best way to preserve the freshness of its fruit aromas. I would describe the label as modern-traditonal. It is elegant and clear. But the back label is much too full of guff for my taste. And silly guff at that! Who wants to drink a wine that contains "hints of bubblegum" for god's sake? And who can believe, even when shown under quotes, a statement such as "Probably the best rosé in the world"?, even if it is signed by Auberon Waugh, one of Britain's finest polemicists of recent years, about whom I wrote an article on this blog, on January 2nd this year: http://morethanjustwine.blogspot.com/2011/01/world-of-auberon-waugh.html

Never mind, the proof of the pudding is in the eating (surely to be amended to "drinking" in this case), and this test is most conclusive. The colour is medium deep compared to other rosés. The nose is fresh and fine, not very expressive but quite pleasant. The flavours on the palate are reminiscent of crisp fresh fruit, sharp but not agressive, with a feel that seems almost rounded, quite delicious and yet vibrant and refreshing. This is a very good rosé that does its job perfectly: that of reminding you of a real flavoursome wine whilst lifting your palate and making you ready for some food.

Château de Sours rosé sells for around 7 euros a bottle, which, although not cheap, actually represents quite good value when compared to some of the over-priced rosés from Provence that tend to flood the top end of the growing market for this type of wine.

Patrick Pagès, RIP

I do not much like obituaries, and this is not one since I am not competent for such an exercise as I did not know this man well. In fact we only met a couple of times. But few people have ever impressed me with their enthusiasm and their generosity as much as Patrick Pagès did, so here goes for a few words, which may only mean something to those who knew him, but which, I can only hope, may also strike a few more hearts here and there. 

Patrick obtained, and held for ten years, a Michelin star in his family auberge in one of France's most remote rural areas, in that austere and unspoilt Cevennes region which has been a refuge for persecuted Protestants way back during France's bloody religious wars of the 17th century. Patrick Pagès also presided the region's sommelier association for some time, as he was, as well as being a fine chef, a true wine lover and connoisseur. His auberge, called Chanteloiseau, was known to any who ventured past its doors as one of the most fantastic places in the world for an ideal fusion of wine with food, all in a true spirit of sharing and warmth, because he loved all these ingredients equally.

Yet, being situated far away from any major town (it took a couple of hours to get to his place from Montpellier, and along windy roads which made getting back quite hasardous given the quality of his wine list!), this wonderfully warm and welcoming auberge was never, sadly, a viable economic proposition. So Patrick had to attempt all kinds of other enterprises in order to survive. Paris and Moscow were amongst them. I do not know all of the details, and it doesn't really matter now. He has just lost his final battle, against the dreaded crab. 

What I will remember, and for all my life, is his extraordinary generosity and will to share the treasures of his region, his heritage, his knowledge, and all that he had to give. And that was a lot! I was once party to the organisation of a press trip, about 20 years ago, to the auberge called Chanteloiseau (what a beautiful name: it signifies "the song of a bird"). Not content with offering us the most fabulous aperitif and lunch that I think I have ever seen, he also confided me with the key to his (spectacular) cellar for that meal. I will never forget that day, and his spirit of sharing and confidence that, in all likelihood, brought on him many financial difficulties.

His passing is a loss for all who knew him, and we can only hope that many more will take up the baton of that level of generosity and joy in life.

Sing bird, sing....

Madeleine Peyroux does it sometimes

A short while ago I wrote a short piece on this blog about Billie Holiday: 
http://morethanjustwine.blogspot.com/search/label/Sounds%20good 

She just has to be the most moving jazz singer ever. I dislike making direct comparisons, and this does not purport to be one. But, if asked whose voice and phrasing (amongst contemporary women singers) most reminds me, at times, of Lady Day, I would have to say Madeleine Peyroux. She does not have that tragic story to add weight and her dresses are perhaps not the greatest things ever seen on stage, but there is something in her voice that is so sad and so beautiful.

Just try listening to this: 


Madeleine Peyroux - Dance Me to the End
envoyé par hoel6128. - Regardez plus de clips, en HD !


I suppose it helps that Leonard Cohen wrote the song, but then Holiday had some pretty good song writers too, including herself.

Win or lose, it's just a game, isn't it?

Recent results in the two team sports that I follow (rugby and, to a lesser extent, cricket) have rubbed this message in, once again, with all due pertinence. In an age of increasing professionalisation of sport, with all that may or may not imply, it is sometimes hard to remind oneself that it is only a game, and to refrain from either over-celebration in the case of victory, of over-despondency on the case of defeat. I tend not to overdue celebrations, but defeat can be hard to manage at times, especially when you feel that you, or your team, have not given of your best.

Following a team you support (or an individual, in the case of that kind of sport) can be full of joys and also hold its share of frustrations, but neither should be allowed to get out of hand. Living something intensely does not signify that it should take over everything and distort one's judgement. I also believe that one should continuously strive to see and bring out the best in any game or sport. This naturally involves a true spirit of fair-play (ie playing by the rules and respecting those who are there to arbitrate them), which includes respect for the day's adversaries and their supporters.

There can be, especially with team sports, a thin line between ardent support and excessive language or behaviour, even if the language may often used in a spirit of derision and within the framework of participation in a kind of ritual. In other words, people get a bit carried away in the heat of the moment.

When your team wins, its can feel like this:

Firework display at Stade de France after a recent victory of Paris over Toulouse

But when it loses, one can feel like its a bad rainy day and you just hope things will brighten up tomorrow, or you become a little cynical to put the pain at a distance. Yet the difference between the two situations may be very minor, unless your team was totally underperforming (as happened on Saturday when watching the Paris rugby team in their defeat on their home ground against Perpignan).

The recent victory of England over France in international rugby, on the other hand, gave me no particular will to rejoice. This was partly on account of the fairly tight margin by which the game was won by England, at least when compared with what might have occurred. It is also because I live in France and so rightly have to moderate any possible enthusiasm in such moments out of elementary politeness towards my host country. And, to be fair to all my French friends, they were most elegant in defeat, freely admitting that the best team won on that day.  

Turning to cricket, the current World Cup series for the short, one day-long version of the game that is being played in India and Sri Lanka has held its fair share of surprises and cliff-hangers, and, with them, alternating bouts of heartbreak, relief and joy for supporters of the English team. An unbelievably spectacular tied game with India (possibly the favourites for the tournament), a shock loss to Ireland (good team, but hardly top notch), and then a very narrow victory over South Africa, who must have been favourites for that game. And we are still in the preliminary pools part of the tournament !

So, let's take our (whoever "our" may be) victories with modest joy, and a our losses with stoicism and the will to come back and do better.

Dangerous grandparents

Corsican bandit? Dangerous terrorist? No, but probably an English spy.

This is a photograph of my paternal grandfather, Ralph Patteson Cobbold, who, in 1897/1888, spent a year wandering around Central Asia in the area of the Hindou Kush and Pamir mountains, roughly speaking where Afghanistan, the then Indian part of the British Empire (now Pakistan), China and Russia come together. His declared objective was hunting mountain sheep (ovis poli), ibex, bears and tigers, and he looks more or less equipped for that in the picture above. But most contemporaries were firmly convinced that he was actually sent by the British government to spy on the Russians and their plans in the area.

Here is a satellite picture of the area. They didn't have satellites in those days. Or aeroplanes.

He was actually captured by the Russians at one point but escaped and walked back to Kashmir. As he put it in his book Innermost Asia, published in 1899, "I feel it is time to return as none of my boots have any leather left on their soles, I have lost all of my pack animals and have no money beyond that which I may borrow."

A little big man, he lived to be 94. Here he is dressed for the mountain conditions, which involved sleeping in yurts at minus 27 degrees.