Le Bar à putes

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Last Saturday after an exhausting day spent shopping for a very special evening dress,    Mr French announced that he needed a drink. I am not sure if this is because he was parched, or because we’d just wasted an insane amount of time hunting down a wispy little handful of silk.

He’d actually been a bit more specific than needing a ‘drink’. The man wanted a cocktail, so I suggested the bar of a swanky hotel just up the street from where we were standing.

Mr French travels a lot for work, so he is quite hotel savvy and doesn’t even think twice before walking past the security standing in front of these places. I do. It intimidates the hell out of me. My heart used to skip a beat, worried they’d shoo me away, and that I’d be mortified. Neither of which should matter, but they both seem to.

The concierge pointed me to the bar and there was actually a maître d’ seating people. At a bar. I found that just slightly over the top. No one seated me at the Hemingway Bar of the Ritz. But we were in and I was happy to rest my shopping weary legs. It was a tough job, all that shopping, but I had enjoyed every minute of and was ready to savour some more adventure.

As we settled in, Mr French excused himself to the powder room and I started to look at the other guests. Next to us was a Mom with her 7 year old son. The bartenders and staff were so sweet to him that I immediately got over my surprise at seeing a young child at a bar. Then there was a couple our age. I was particularly taken with her stunning taupe Birkin bag and the fact that they were very much into each other, petting each other’s hands as she worriedly confirmed three or four times that there was no added sugar, or alcohol in her husband’s drink. I don’t think she was a nut, I think there was a health issue there.

Mr French arrived and asked what I was looking at, so I pointed at the next couple my eyes had moved to; two young, attractive girls laughing and giggling away in strongly accented English as they both played flirtatiously, running fingers through lustrous black hair. One of them had Celine’s Luggage bag in phantom black crocodile.

“Why are you looking at the prostitutes?”
“Prostitutes? How do you know they’re prostitutes?”
“Are you kidding? I spend my life in these hotels. They’re prostitutes,” he affirmed with that irrefutable gaelic shrug.
“They can’t be prostitutes, she’s got my dream bag!”
“How do you think she can afford your dream bag? I wouldn’t be surprised if those two girls over there are prostitutes, too. When you have a hotel bar with so many more women than men, its louche.”

I was amazed and intrigued. Our drinks arrived, delightfully refreshing, and I started paying more attention to the scene. An Asian man arrived and sat himself down at a table, quietly text-ing away on his iPhone, or was her sext-ing? Then came a European guy, and the Maître d’ showed him a spot immediately next to the girls. Within minutes they were laughing and giggling, the three of them.

In walks a stunningly gorgeous girl in a mini white Chanel quilted skirt and some gorgeous black and white heels. She looks around the room until her eyes land on Asian gentleman who jumps up like a bolt, greeting her proprietarily, his hands on her hips.

“Oh my, god!” I exclaim, “a call girl, that is a call girl!”
“No doubt” affirms a blasé Mr French as one of the girls at the bar starts typing her number into the European’s phone. The man asks the bartender for the bill, indicating he’d be paying for the girl’s drinks, as well. He leaves and the girls toast their good fortune enthusiastically. I am confident that Mr French has made a mistake, pointing out that the has man left… alone. He tells me that the girl will be leaving shortly. And she does. Leaving her friend alone at the bar for 27 minutes. I’ve become the crazy stalker-type.

Mr French goes on to explain that the girl alone at the bar is just learning the trade (the cheap jewelry, is how you can tell) and that the girls pay the staff to let them in the bar. I should be alarmed that he knows so much about the business, but I’m not. He says its from all the detective novels he reads and I am happy to believe him and thrilled to have an inside peek at the fascinating show at the bar. I mean, really, we’re just making this all up in our heads. Perhaps the girl in the Chanel skirt was a long lost friend of the Asian gentleman from their Oxford days? Or the two girls were distant cousins and the one disappeared on an innocent errand? Circumstantial evidence, my friends, but its fun!

The girls decide to leave at about the same time we’re heading home and as they leave the girl puts her hand into that Celine bag, pulls out a bill and tips the Maître d’. Case closed.

The Closet

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Somebody recently googled “in every Parisian’s closet” and landed on my blog. I’m sure I’ve written this sentence one or sixty times, but I have never actually produced a post about what I imagine to be in every Parisienne’s closet. So I thought I’d put it in writing. But, despite dwarf sized apartments with miniature closets, the list is long, très long. Especially when we start talking shoes.

The list is so long, in fact, it requires a book, not a post, so today I’m sticking to spring 2012. If you want the whole enchilada, I suggest consulting Inès de la Fressange’s book, but be forewarned; her list includes grandmother’s diamonds and vintage Hermès bags, so its not what the French would call accessible to every woman. Rest assured, this list is more reasonable;

1/ A military shirt. I found one at the military shop at Montparnasse and has a large, black ink HS (hors service) stamped on the back. At 20€, it was a easy purchase for all the girls chez nous. But, even the designers like Hartford are getting in on the action, re-vamping the classic for those who want a fresher look.

2/ A dark blue blazer. Some like them in linen for the summer, but usually they’re just a light weight wool. They’re worn by everyone, of all ages, even teens are happy to be sporting them.

3/ White or colored jeans. Denim blue is oh so very yesterday this summer, although I have no doubts it will be back for the fall. It is particularly obvious this spring because the weather has been too abysmal for the skirts and dresses we’re all wishing we could wear.

4/ Low ankle boots. Gotta have ‘em. With a dress, with jeans and even with shorts (if you’re young enough, or brave enough), looking like a cowboy from the Camargue is definitely a fashion faut this spring. Of course, we don’t have a lot of options as torential spring showers keep flip flops, or any kind of sandal from being a serious option.

5/ The Vanessa Bruno bag. That’s the canvas bag with sequin straps that you see on every other Parisienne as soon as spring has sprung. My first year in Paris, I was totally mystified when I opened my front door on that first warm day to discover that everyone was sporting the same design. I became convinced that I’d missed the national spring fashion bulletin. It has been popular for years now and will probably be so for many years to come. Boring, but tried, true and oh, so practical.

Perhaps, as the season progresses, the sun will come out and I’ll be able to add a bit of color, a swooshy skirt, or a lovely dress to the list, but for now I’m staying covered up.

Friday@Flore

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I’ll be working outside the city today, so I actually went to Flore last Monday, thinking I’d get some great shots of people out enjoying Easter. WRONG!!!! Arctic winds kept temps in the zero range and even those who don’t usually mind the cold were generally disgusted with the dismal temps we’ve been having this year. Hey weather gods, up there? Ca suffit!!!

How did I know that everyone was down and out? That I wasn’t simply projecting? The shoes!!! Parisienne’s take great pride in taking care of their shoes. Frenchmen, who participate in very few of the household chores, proudly get out their shoe waxing kits each Sunday and tired, scuffed shoes are simply, NON!

But this week, it was all about comfort knows best and everyone had dug deep into their closet for abandoned old favorites! Les Parisiennes were wearing their walking shoes!

There was definitely a common thread running through it all. In a very brief shoot (did I mention that I was cold? I couldn’t stand there long, especially not with Mr French sitting in the glass enclosed terasse, a traditional hot chocolate steaming in his cupped hands) I saw countless pairs of ankle high boots.

Ankle high boots, and wedgies. Yes, mesdames, I am afraid that wedgies will be the next “thing”. They’ve been popping up for the past few years, but I’d hoped they’d disappear as fast as they’d appeared. I’d hoped wrong. The girls at the office tell me they’re comfortable. I see their point… you get to keep the slimming illusion of a heel with the comfy rubber sole and support of a wedge. And in this gorgeous red tone, who could resist? Hmmm….. time to go shopping?

 

And at last, a few pair of knee high boots. Oddly enough, we only see the thigh highs around fashion week!?! Loving the jaunty tassel on these boot! I’ll leave you with the chicest of them all… Wishing you a fabulous Friday and a fantabulous weekend. Here’s to a bit of sunshine for us all!

Beyond exhibits

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After last weekend at Maastrict I was feeling more cultured than a European yogurt. And the sun was out, which always makes me resolutely museums averse. This did not stop us from stopping by the local auction house.

Druout is the famous auction facility in the 2nd arrondisement, but in 2000 they lost their monopoly on the auction scene and a group of well known auctioneers teamed with the Dassault family to purchase Artcurial, a gallery owned by the L’Oréal family, creating the most important auction house in France. You may not recognize the Dassault name, but that is because, unlike the previous owner, their goods are rarely found on drugstore shelves. They build military airplanes.

Housed behind gilded gates in the Maison Dassault, an aristocratic mansion on the Champs Elysées, Artcurial is known for their bi-annual sales of Hermes goods, comic book art and aeronautical mementos. They also have sales for watches, 20th century art, Art Deco furniture and African art, as well as many others.

Its intimidating walking through the small door in the large grill, but once inside the gates, it is an interesting place and everyone (except cat burglars) is genuinely welcome. Just beyond the reception, to the left is an exhibition space to full of art or artifacts from the next show to go up on the block. To the right is a small room with catalogues for all the coming shows.

Beyond the exhibition space is a large bookstore, with a fantastic collection of art books, divided by genre, and which includes a great kid’s section. Beyond the catalogue area is a cafe where palm trees thrive under skylights.

yeah, I wasn't exaggerating about the rocket pods....

Upstairs is more display space where you are just as likely to stumble over a rocket ship pod as an Hermès Kelly Bag. And if it happens to be auction day, the bidding room is also open to the public for most sales.

It is thrilling sitting there as paddles raise and the auctioneers dives into his patter and paddles begin to raise. You must pre-register for a paddle if you wish to bid, so there is absolutely no chance of you accidentally bidding the family fortune on, say, a staircase from a 1930’s cruise ship.

If you are interested in a paddle of your own, the process is easy, you can even register online. And if you’re really desperate for an original drawing of TinTin, you can even pre-bid several days in advance, giving The House your budget in the hopes that the hammer falls in your favor.

Hag Semeach

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Passover, or as the French call it, Jewish Easter is ending. Woot. Woot.  This is the time of year when Jews do not eat bread. Living in Paris and passing by the bakeries which seem to pop up up every 10 metres, as well as avoiding the bread basket on every table, is something of a challenge. Actually, being Jewish in France has been, hmmm… interesting. It starts with a government thing, which, when you think about it, is the source of many interesting moments for those of us who live here.

Napoleon was a major organizer. Today they’d probably give him drugs to control something with initials like ADHA or OCD, but back then he was free to conqueror vast territories and create the Civil Code. He decided that it was time to let Jews live within the Paris city limits, and had them form a recognized administration putting them on par with the two other official religions of the country at the time, Catholicism and Protestantism. Thus was born the Consistoire, the official administrative branch of Jews in France.

When we came to France, 200 years later,I decided it was time for my daughter to get a little religion. I called a synagogue. The rabbi asked for proof from the Consistoire that I’m Jewish. This is not unique to France and as someone who has converted, it drives me crazy. Seriously? Proof? Should I show you the yellow star Hitler would have made me wear? He didn’t need proof, simple rumour was enough. Who in their right mind would claim to be Jewish just for the fun of it? I mean while the rest of the world is exchanging extravagant gifts and eating melt in your mouth chocolates over Christmas, we’re frying up potato cannon-fodder grease bombs and spinning lame plastic tops. We sing ridiculously silly songs instead of heart wrenchingly beautiful carols. And John Stewart has a laugh out loud routine about this time of year! http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/mon-april-9-2012/faith-off—adapting-passover.  While my friends were busy taking horse back riding lessons or dance class I was mucking my way through Hebrew lessons. Spanish ham lovingly fed on acorns? Forbidden! Lobster? No way! Honestly, once all your friends have had their Bar/Bat Mitzvahs and the party circuit has reached its end, No One in their right mind is going to pretend to be Jewish.

In protest, I decided never mind, we weren’t going to do the whole Jewish thing after all. Their Dad, who had grown up without much religion, liked the idea. This sent my Mother in law, the woman who raised her son without teaching him a single prayer, into a conniption fit. Her husband had survived the Lodz ghetto, she had escaped the French collabos, there was no question that her granddaughters would not be officially registered with the Consistoire. She had a point and in honor of their family, I set out to get my daughters certified.

I gathered all the paper work requested by the Consistoire. Then I added more,knowing I was dealing with French bureaucracy. Appointment time arrived and I was called into a very plain office, with a wooden desk and a Rabbi. I handed over my Jewish marriage contract, as well as the burial certificate for my Mom, from a Jewish cemetery. The Rabbi looked at me dubiously, “Your Mom’s name doesn’t sound very Jewish. It sounds suspiciously Italian… are you sure she was born Jewish?”

“Absolutely” I declared confidently, brandishing the death certificate and not at all hesitating in my pure, bold faced lie.

“And the father?”

I had my electric bill and 3 different versions of each girls birth certificates, but I had not come prepared for this question. In Judaism, you are what the mother is, the father is irrelevant. I gave the Dad’s background, which included his family’s listing in the Jewish Who’s Who but without written proof, it was just air and he was not impressed. I was not coming back to do this dance again, so we were at something of an impasse. After much negotiating with Hebrew terms being thrown about in French, the rabbi took out the certificates, claiming the girls, “Jewish by mother, father’s religion unknown” and I was done.

It turns out that I was more done than I had ever imagined and it was not long before I was planning Easter Brunches for my step-children. Em still loves Passover, so yesterday I went to the Bon Marche and got her one of her favorite holiday treats that we discovered after moving to Paris, unleavened bread with orange flavor. I had some for breakfast this morning and loved the mix of orange and zest. Bitter sweet.

 

 

After the Rain

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It all began with a button. I am not referring to the bright red button I saw when I was nine years old. That button was bright red and had a small sign beneath that read, “PRESS HERE” in glossy black, capital letters. Being an obedient girl, I pressed and nearly fell off the counter top as a deafening siren started wailing and customers began filing out of the store where I sat on a busy Saturday afternoon. My mother walked upstream through the slightly panicked crowd, calmly taking my hand and whispering through a force smile, “What did you???” My Mom had no doubt in her mind that I had been the one to set of the fire alarm that emptied the store. I’ve always been something of an adventure prone kind of girl like that. BUT this year’s button was the French, deceptively non-descriptive word for pimple.
It was a particularly special one; a black head that sat just to the left of centre at the tip of my nose (why do the ugliest always make their appearance at the tip of the nose?) and refused to leave, calling me to PRESS HERE, much like the smoke detector test in that store in the 70’s. I tried lotions, potions and poisons. I dug deep, I detoxed, I nearly drowned myself drinking more than two litres of water a day. It would not dislodge. Something had to be done.

Since buttons seem to inspire adventure in me, I decided that “something” was going to be an article on the best spas in Paris.

The first spa I went to was After the Rain in the Hotel St James Albany or the rue de Rivoli. I knew little to nothing about this four star hotel in the very center of Paris, but I was very excited to be heading there because when I made my appointment I’d been told to come early and bring a bathing suit. There was a pool!

I arrived an hour early for my rendez-vous, thrilled with the opportunity to be changing up my exercise routine. I was even more thrilled as I was given a tour by the receptionist, and I saw the pool, a gorgeous basin with stone walls, amber lights and wooden lounge chairs. It was utterly zen and I felt like I had my very own, private pool under the Tuileries gardens. A quick visit to the perfectly appointed locker rooms and I was ready to hop in. I did laps for forty minutes. I was alone the entire time and it was heaven.

After the pool, guests are invited to spend twenty minutes in the hammam, which has a changing LED light display to help you keep track of the time. I hadn’t arrived early enough, so I went in for my facial still buzzing from the swim.

The treatment room was a continuation of the zen design around the pool, with a splash of energizing red details. I knew nothing about After the Rain, but quickly learned that it is a very scientifically oriented cosmetics brand from Switzerland and the facials are custom blended for each client’s skin. After a quick analysis I was informed that I have very dry, visibly sensitive skin.

The treatment was fantastic, the products had cured my customarily scaly winter skin without leaving any visible redness. Unfortunately, it did leave me with that damned button, despite some considerable effort on the esthetician’s behalf. It was my fault, I should left time for the hammam!

After the treatment I headed to the rest area, another perfectly peaceful space with flavored waters, teas, herbal teas, dried fruit, fresh fruit, chocolates and fraise Tagadas candy. They even had a working wifi, so I could stretch out my lounge chair, pull out my iPad and write this piece as I Tweeted about the joys of After the Rain and dreamed of coming back with Mr French for their couples soins, La Vie en Rose which includes a rose petal bath, champagne and strawberries from the hotel’s garden.

After the Rain
St James Albany – 202, rue de Rivoli , 1st arron – Tél. : +33 (0)1 44 58 43 21

+ The feeling of having your own private pool under the Tuileries, the rest area with exotically flavoured waters and fun treats.//  – The lack of light

60 minute massage 140€
La Vie en Rose 260€

Hamming it up

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Last week I was talking about Mr French’s Christmas present, which he only received in March. He also got one in February!

Every December someone in Spain sends Mr French some Spanish ham. Which does not sound like a major feat, but it is. Last year a wine bottle travel with the ham broke and created a bloody looking mess. This year, the ham got lost, stuck in a large warehouse, just a few miles from our flat and totally unaccessible. Because it is a gift, I could hardly call up the sender and say, “Thank you for the lovely thought, but your gift never arrived.” So the sender was not thanked, which he found odd and called to inquire, then learning about the mishap and setting things right.

So it arrived the last week of February, just I was stepping out the door to catch the Eurostar for London. I had my bags, Mr French’s bags and I was preoccoupied with some teenager mischief Em had gotten into when the guardian stopped me.

“Madame, I have a package for you!”

“Oh, Merci, can it please wait until Monday? I am headed out the door.”

“Uh, non, I am very sorry, it can not wait, it is taking up most of the loge.”

He opened the door to his office space and I saw what looked like a coffin for a very large dog. The ham had arrived. Mr Le Gardien carried the wooden crate to our door, I threw it in and let it sit there until our return. On the train, my phone rang. It was Em.

“Mom, the ham arrived.” The next day Mr French’s phone rang. It was his son who was staying at the flat because Em is only 15.

“Papa, I see that the ham has arrived.”

The ham is a major deal for our young’uns. Seriously, you’d think I hadn’t left the house stocked full of healthy pre-made food for them to scarf down. Everyone loves it.

My favorite part is that it comes with 6 bottles of some really outstanding Riojas. Mr French loves the elaborate hardware we’ve had to acquire to deal with the ham.

After London we immediately headed to the Alps skiing, so it was only recently we got to start hamming it up!

Maastricht, the town

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Maastricht, of course, is more than just an Art Fair. Its an industrial city and university town at the tip of Holland, just a few miles from the both the Germany and Belgium border. When driving from France, you know you’ve arrived when the amber toned lamp posts that are the backbone of the Belgium highway system, suddenly disappear.

There are 11 museums and several churches to visit in Maastricht, but we were a bit too burned out on art to even consider more. What I did want to see was the Selexyz bookstore. Built inside a Dominican church, with metal frame catwalks creating see-thru floors below the stone vaults, it is often considered one of the coolest bookstores in the world. I wish I could agree, but there was a freak snow storm on our last day, so we had to rush home to avoid getting stuck in the snow!

This trip had been my Christmas present to Mr French, and the fact that I had organised everything down to the most minute last detail, up to and including a serious dusting of snow to ensure that it would be feeling a lot like Christmas, well he was in awe!

We stayed near the train station. Originally I was concerned that it may be a seedier neighborhood than we were used to, but there were not alot of options left, almost everything fully booked when I called shortly before Christmas. Seeing an Hermes boutique as we drove up “our” street made me laugh at my worries, but I was particularly intrigued by the tart displays at the all too tempting Patisserie Royale.

We stayed at the Beaumont Hotel, a very basic design hotel that had shuttles to the show. I stumbled across the hotel when looking for a fantastic dinner to book. Their restaurant is one of the best in town, with carefully sourced, fresh organic ingredients. I had a truffle risotto, grilled turbot and a divine lemon tart with champagne sorbet. It looked so good at the table next to us, that I asked the waiter to put one aside for me before we’d even ordered our meal!

Having a good restaurant coincidentally meant an exceptional hotel breakfast. I don’t normally go in for hotel breakfasts, but that snow storm kept us from heading out the door in search of a café. How exceptional was the breakfast? They had farm fresh yogurt with an entire selection of nuts, seeds and meusli to add to it. There were country jams and a man serving eggs to order. Even Mr French commented on the delicious honey and there was no doubt that the orange juice was freshly squeezed because they had a machine, letting you throw the whole oranges in yourself as they were sliced and pressed directly into your glass.

They also had Hagelslag. When I was a student in Paris a Dutch classmate heard I was going to Amsterdam and told me I absolutely HAD to get Hagelslag. I was thrilled to try a local specialty and when I learned that it involved chocolate, I made it a point to discover this local delicacy. Hagelslag, it turns out, is Dutch for Chocolate Jimmies and the Dutch use them rather liberally on their warm, buttered morning toast, smearing them as they melt into the nooks and crannies. Yum!

And that was all we saw of Maastricht; a pastry shop, a restaurant and a breakfast bar. Who you calling a little piggy? Me?

Just to keep with the theme of our weekend, as soon as we left Holland Mr French went into “quest” mode. He was on the look out for a Baraque à Frites. The Belgians are famous in France for their French Fry stands (love the irony, non?) and Mr French was bent on trying a few with one of their “disgusting” (his exact word) sauces.  The first stand had wonderfully large, bight yellow sign of a cone of fries waving us over. Unfortunately, in true Belgian fashion, the sign came about 15 meters AFTER the off ramp for the stand! The second stand, we missed as we were in a heated debate about the spending of those million dollars that we don’t have and the third time was the charm!

les frites belges avec sauces dégeulasse !

 

 

Maastricht, part 2

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SO we were at the fair to see art, us and 69,998 other aficionados who had crossed countries and oceans to attend. The big news of the fair was that less Chinese are buying this year, the void quickly being filled by American museums which seem to have grown confident of their finances after a bearish hibernation the past few years. And that TEFAF is all set to organize a second fair; in China! But about the art….

Magritte and Me!!!

What I saw, what really blew me away were the Narwhal horns, which, being the left tooth of the arctic whale technically belong in a Natural History exhibition, but being from the 17th and 18th century, they qualified as antiques. Antiques I was invited to touch! That is one of the most flabbergasting aspects of this show. The dealers are happy to talk about their treasures and will occasionally invite you to touch and even try on things as rare and improbable as a Narwhal horn, a tiara, an impressionist painting and ancient Roman pottery.

A coffee table or work of art?

There were several stands with Illuminated books, rare manuscripts that were painstakingly calligraphed, then painted and gilded on parchment by solitary monks living in light deprived, freezing cold abbeys across Europe. Centuries later, the blues were still brilliant, the golds bright and they could be yours for anything from 240,000 to 3,000,000€.

As I walked through the fair, I priced things, which was a great way to strike up conversations with the dealers and to learn the market values of entire genres. By the second day I was humming the Barenaked Ladies song, “If I Had a Million Dollars” and virtually spending the money I don’t have. The thing with TEFAF is that someone with a million dollars could leave with a trunk full of loot and feel very rich indeed, or they could twist in angst over all thy multi-million dollar pieces that were out of reach.

There was an entire section dedicated to fine jewels, with Graff displaying the most famous stones of the show; an incredibly rare 20.02 carat blue diamond set with another 100 carats of diamonds in all different shades to form a $100 million peacock that would fit into the palm of your hand. I didn’t get too close to that piece, but I did approach a pair of diamond earrings that had once belonged to a royal princess, a pendant of an enameled lamb sitting on a golden bed that was created in the 1500’s and some gorgeous Indian with rock crystal stones set into enameled 22k gold fish shaped earring.

We never even knew micro-mosaics as an art form!!!!

In the works on paper area we saw some color-rich Japanese prints (Hiroshige 4,500€) and several studies by Klimt (220,000€). There were also quite a few pieces by Picasso, who could also be found in the Paintings area and the Modern Art section, in Gagosian’s stand, not far from the Koons. There were several mobiles by Calder (1.7M€) and a healthy amount of pieces by Fernand Leger and Joan Miro. The collections were conservative, making this one of the few art fairs where I didn’t wander around the booths snorting, “Hunh, and they call this art?” although Damien Hirst still leaves me cold.

from the 1500's!!!

You tired by all this amazing wealth? I was too, by the time we’d spent one day and seen only 3/5 of the show! We went home exhausted that evening, thrilled to have reservations in the hotel’s restaurant and determined to return the next day, as planned.

We had yet to explore the simply balanced Japanese ceramics (7,000€), nor the astonishingly ancient 3000 year old buddah (65,000€) or the heart-stoppingly pure Egyptian cat (75,000€). There was a blue hippo from Egypt that looked liked he’d sauntered off a poster for the Met, and gold earrings from ancient Rome that were actually quite wearable, though I’d be terrified of loosing one on the metro tracks.

Then we made our way to the Paintings, instantly falling for a gorgeous Caillebotte (2.4€ million) of a tree in a meadow that had been inspired by a Monet the artist owned. There were fantastic Dutch still lifes of butterflies (40,000€) by an artist I’d never heard of before, but plenty of work by names you’d recognize, like Boldoni, Cassat, Brueghel, Delacroix, Velazquez and Van Dyck.

After two days, even Mr French was feeling saturated, and loaded down. He was packing some serious weight on him because the galleries, which had been selling their personal catalogues for about 10€ a stand, suddenly went into panic at the thought of shipping all their tomes back and were handing them out as free gifts that we couldn’t refuse, happy to drive home with fodder to dream on.

Rather old sealing wax boxes and,

...rather new Damien Hirst

 

Maastricht

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Please don’t ask me how to pronounce the name of this town. I simply can’t no matter how many times I’ve been corrected. But I am not the only one who has a hard time with the place. When I announced we were going to Maastricht, half the French people I know thought we were headed to Belgium, but it is in fact, in Holland. Why would I be going to a town I could not pronounce and very few people ever bother to find it on a map? For art’s sake! For the The European Fine Art Fair, to be precise, or TEFAF, for those in the know, which has been one of premier art shows since 1975.

What exactly is an art fair and what does one do there? Its a one stop shop for serious art buyers and lovers, collection 260 art galleries from 20 countries showing art from every continent except Antarctica. The are 5 main sections to the show, Old Masters, Antiques, Modern Art, Art on Paper and Design (which is a fancy way of say 20th century furniture). Within those sections there is also an area with fine jewelery and a handful of manuscripts and classical antiques (the really old stuff). Nobody seemed to know exactly how large the show was in kilometers, but its like a super mall of really amazing stuff and people flock there, paying the 55€ entrance fee to see truck loads of really rare and beautiful stuff.

Some of those people are billionaires and they are out shopping, vying against museum curators for some key pieces. Others may be passionate collectors who put all their resources into one specific kind of art and there are art students who simply want to learn more, but the vast majority of the people are the same crowd who would head to the Louvre on a Sunday afternoon. Especially this past Sunday, when we heard flocks of Dutch, speaking Dutch. We also heard American and British, some Chinese, lots of French, German and Italian with a bit of Russian for good measure.

Taking a closer look at 2000 yr old gold rings

If you hate museums, this show is probably not for you, but if you like art, its as exciting as being a 7 year old in a candy shop, a 1€ coin in your sweaty palm. Most people probably don’t consider TEFAF because it is out of the way and expensive to attend, but there may be a handful out there who do not go because they are intimidated by the thought of mixing it up with the elite of the art world, so today’s post is all about squashing that inhibition. Because unlike a museum, this place is like an interactive art history lesson, with some of the greatest specialist from the art world absolutely thrilled to share their knowledge and show their art.

Everyone is welcome. If you love art, it is the experience of a lifetime and you really should go. Its an easy train ride from Paris, so day trips are possible if you happen to live in town. The fair is a 30 minute walk, or 10€ taxi ride from the station. When you get there, I recommend spring the 2,50€ for the coat check. The entrance fee, 55€, includes a gorgeous, full color catalogue of the show. It weighs 5 kilos, so I sincerely recommended that you pick it up as you leave at the end of the day.

Getting close to art

Oops!!! Important point, what to wear! There were some outrageous outfits, and a confirmed eccentric, or two, like that crazy Californian chick who lives in Paris, and recently acquired a Bowler hat in London that she absolutely insisted on wearing the first day (to great acclaim, I may add). Most people, however, wear simple nice clothing with the experts insisting on comfortable shoes. I saw very few jeans, and it was warm inside, so sweaters we rare, but beyond that, it was anything goes.

So you’re well dressed, inside the show and ready to go. What now? Prioritize! We spent an entire day visiting just 3 sections. Once you know what you want to see first, start exploring. And here is the important bit, ask questions! The dealers are there to sell, but also to educate and they were happy to talk about their collections and the art world today, even to the obviously starving art a students. Its fascinating what you learn and an absolute thrill when they invite you to feel the canvas of a Caillebotte, hold a 3000 year old piece of pottery, or try on a tiara!

The gallery owners like a bit of fun, too!!!

For lunch, there are a couple of cafés and a “real” restaurant, but we were thrilled with the curry cart we stumbled across on the second day. Lunch for two 11€. After lunch we headed out to see more art and only stopped when they announced the doors were closing in 15 minutes and the booths started closing.

That night we were as exhausted as we had been earlier this month after a day’s skiing. Our minds racing as we digested all we’d seen…. more to come on that tomorrow!!!

 

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