It's been hectic around here! I literally just finished the rough draft of the transcrip of my 25-minute oral expose on critiques of absolute monarchy on Montesquieu's Persian Letters (to be delivered on Wednesday), and still in the middle of my expose on the Ministry of Finance under Louis XIV.
But let's talk tourism: in the past week, I returned to the Louvre, and paid a visit to some French royalty.
Twice a week, the Louvre holds "nocturnes," where the galleries are open at night, until 10:00 p.m. As a "young friend of the Louvre," I'm allowed to bring a guest during these nights, and I invited my friend Sherif, who lives in my dorm. Sherif is a 22-year-old law student from Egypt; he is fluent in French, having been taught in French-language school, and wants to continue his studies in the U.S. He needs to practice his English, and I need to practice my French, so we alternated fairly freely between the two languages, changing whenever it felt right, during our several hours together. We took the RER (the train in Ile-de-France) and Metro north from the dorm, and, after getting a little bit turned around in the 1st arrondissement, found the Louvre.
In retrospect, the two exhibits we visited were well-chosen; the history of the Louvre itself (built by Philipe II, called Philipe-Auguste, contemporary of Richard the Lionheart), and Ancient Egypt. I know a little bit of French history, so I was in the position, for instance, to explain a little bit about Philipe-Auguste, Louis XIV, Napoleon I and III, Louis-Philippe, and the other actors we encountered. Sherif, meanwhile, is Egyptian, and could give me a wonderful description of life in ancient Egypt, of its pharaohs, its scribes, its musicians, and its builders.
In the middle of our stroll through historic models of Paris and the Louvre, Sherif posed me a question that could never be asked in the United States. We had been discussing how Napoleon I seized power, and how, just as in contemporary Egypt, whoever controls the army controls the state (elections officially scheduled for November, right?). Sherif asked me whether it was in the United States, France, or Great Britain that human freedom had been born. I was, well, taken aback. We're so self-critical of ourselves in the U.S. that any claim that America invented human liberty cannot be openly supported by any but the most ultra-patriotic, who are not to be found where I grew up. So I found myself, first of all, explaining how untenable this opinion was, how, because, for instance, the author of the Declaration of Independence was a large plantation owner who sexually abused his slaves and kept his unrecognized illegitimate children as slaves strikes many as hypocritical. Then, with promptings by Sherif, I found myself describing the histories of contemporary France (1789, jacobine republic, Napoleon I, restoration, July Monarchy, Napoleon III, Franco-Prussian War and Paris Commune, 3rd Republic, Vichy, 4th and 5th Republics) and Great Britain (Magna Charta, the Civil War and Cromwell, the Glorious Revolution, the neutralization of the House of Lords just around 1900, the slow decline in power of the monarchs), with a nod towards the U.S. Constitution. I didn't say all of this to show off, nor am I now listing everything for the purpose of flaunting my knowledge; what I'm trying to get at is how enormous a question Sherif asked, and how impossible it was for me to begin to explain why I couldn't answer it, because history simply is so complicated. He told me how much he enjoyed our conversation, so I thought that I did the right thing, but what would you have said if you had been in my place? Oh, and this was all in French...
By this time, we were several rooms into the Ancient Egyptian collections, and I told Sherif that it was his turn to speak, and mine to listen (he switched to English). It was my turn to relax, and listen to an enthusiast. He explained to me how obelisks were erected, for instance, with the help of the flood of the Nile, about the introduction of the chariot in Egypt, about scarabs, and about the origin of the "curse of the Pharaohs." Concerning this last matter, because Egypt's kings' tombs were provided with all the necessities of life, they had large stores of food, which, after several millennia, had long rotted. When early archaeologists opened the tombs, they immediately got hit in the face with 3000-year-old toxic effluvia. And despite all of the excavations, Egyptologists believe that they have only uncovered around 20% of ancient Egypt's treasures.
The Louvre guards began to close the doors on us, so we hurried out, and, with a little bit of searching, made it back to the Metro station. That night, it suddenly got cold in Paris, and I was still in my shorts (although I had grabbed my gloves before leaving). The next day, it was in the forties (low of 6 degrees Celsius, for you non-Americans), and I had my hood up and my gloves on in the Bibliotheque Saint-Genevieve.
Luckily, it was sunny for my Sunday excursion to the Basilique Saint-Denis, located north of Paris, as far as you can get from the city while still riding the Metro. It was a beautiful day, and I wanted to take advantage of the weather while it lasted, seeing as the basilica and its crypt get notoriously cold in the wintertime. I foolishly forgot my camera, so no FB photos; you'll have to imagine the basilica with me (or just search Google images for visual aids).
The basilica houses the necropolis of the kings of France; that is, it houses the bones of royal and noble families whom the modern state of France recognizes as French. Valerie, from EDUCO, had told me that Charlemagne was buried there; in fact, he isn't (he's in what's now Germany, in his old capital), but I did see several of my old friends, such as Francois I, who shares a prominent crypt with his queen, Claude de France; the crypt is decorated with Ionic columns, and was built under Henri II, in 1545. I saw Charles Martel and Pepin the Short, Carolingians, before descending into the Bourbon vault. Charles Martel was wearing a crown, holding a scepter, and wearing a royal cloak, just like all of the kings, even though he was never king in his lifetime -- he was Mayor of the Palace, meaning that he controlled everything, while the long-haired Merovingian king was nominal king of the Francs. Down among the Bourbons, one can find the preserved heart of Louis XIV alongside a fragment of Henri IV's body (which fragment is unspecified). As of 2004, Louis XVII's heart has also been on display (they wanted to verify that it was actually his). I could only think that the hearts were far more shriveled and unhealthy-looking than the sheep hearts that I handled in AP bio with Miss Gray, and even grayer and uglier than the crocodile hearts I had to understand in my Verts class at Cornell.
There is also an ossuary; behind two walls are a pair of caskets, with bones of various men and women with royal pretensions scrambled up inside. This, naturally, is not what is show to the public; instead, they are presented with a chronological list of all of the ossuary's residents, categorized by rank. There were enormous gaps in the chronology; for instance, the earliest bones were those of Dagobert (d. 638), Merovingian founder of the basilica; the next bones were those of Charles the Bald, Charlemagne's grandson, and thus a Carolingian, who died in 877. All of this disorder is the cause of the Revolution; during its more radical phase, the Revolutionary government disinterred all of the kings, in order to rid itself of all physical remnants of France's monarchical past. Although I believe in historical preservation ("that belongs in a museum!"), at the same time, I sympathize with the anti-royal cause. Can such a necropolis exist without engendering the illusion of the legitimacy of monarchy? Would I have visited the basilica if it had been filled with commoners rather than kings? Is this kind of history-by-political-leaders dangerous? Are palace intrigues, assassinations, and royal squabbles important to the study of history? But can we understand the past without some kind of a grasp of political leadership?
Ascending again, I found more royal propaganda, a pair of statues of Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette, commissioned during the Restoration of the monarchy, by Louis XVIII. Although the body in Louis XVI's coffin is a guillotined man, there is good reason to believe that the body is not that of Louis XVI; again, this is not written anywhere, and I know of it only by listening to one of the museum employees. There are a few more royal couples whom you may remember from my adventures in the Loire: Louis XII and Anne de Bretagne (married at the Chateau de Langeais, remember?), and Henri II and Catherine de Medicis. I also saw the tomb of Clovis, the Francish king who converted to Catholicism at the behest of his wife, around the year 500. Dagobert, called the founder of the basilica, received a rather special monument of his own, a fantastically-sculpted marble monolith depicting his soul, in the form of a naked baby wearing a crown and standing on a napkin, being presented before Christ. I really had to hunt to find the remains of Louis IX, a.k.a. Saint-Louis. Because he was canonized as a saint, his body was broken into tiny pieces, and sent to reliquaries around Europe; the basilica has retained the tip of one of his finger-bones, which has been placed in a chapel, rather than among the other royal tombs. Thanks to Professor Long's class on religious violence, I have read a section of the Compte de Joinville's account of Saint-Louis's failure of a seventh crusade in the late 13th century. Saint-Louis contributed greatly to the basilica, ordering a great deal of new tombs. He also initiated the burning of Talmud manuscripts (after a rigged trial between a rabbi and a formerly-Jewish monk, much resembling the Ramban's experience in Barcelona not too long afterwards), but, to his credit, he did found the Sorbonne, where I am studying.
Whew, I need to get to bed! I'm exhausted!
~JD
"Des 840, il est pratiquement impossible de retirer leurs honores aux fonctionnaires et le synode de Coullaines, en 843, officialise la pratique" [Since 840, it was practically impossible for the Carolingians to collect their royal land-revenues from their bureaucrats, and the 843 Synod of Coullaines made the practice the legal norm] (Jean-Philippe Genet, Le monde au Moyen Age, p. 57).
Showing posts with label Francois I. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Francois I. Show all posts
Monday, October 24, 2011
Sunday, October 2, 2011
400 Years of Italians
Shanah Tovah, everyone! I hope that this year, we will not continue the stupid mistakes of last year, and that the unfortunate events of last year will not repeat themselves.
Speaking of repetition, I spent (another) day at the Louvre this weekend. This weekend was the Day of Italian Paintings: that's virtually all I saw, but my itinerary took me from the medieval painters of the Sienese school to the canvases of the age of Louis XIV.
The curators of the Louvre have worked hard to present their Italian paintings in a historically coherent fashion, that nonetheless is free from strict chronology. They have converted a colossal second-floor hallway in the Denon wing, perhaps the longest continuous wing in the entire palace, into a gallery to display their great Italian treasures. I would guess that at least 20% of the paintings depicted the Madonna and child, even though by the middle of the seventeenth century, this motif is no longer in vogue. The earliest Italian paintings, those dating from the late 13th century, were in a side room, as was the Mona Lisa, but for the most part, the chronological trajectory was straight. Oh, and I also passed two famous Greek statues, dating from antiquity, on the way, "The Gladiator" (who actually isn't a gladiator), and the "Victory of Samothrace."
The first room contained some well-known names to those of you familiar with art history, or just with Dante's Divine Comedy. Cimabue and Giotto, two great painters of the 14th century, who, like all their contemporaries, painted only religious scenes. Whereas Cimabue's style places him squarely in the medieval school, on account of his highly impersonal representations of saints and angels outside of time and space, however well he executed them, Giotto began to innovate, and began to situate his paintings in time, at precise moments in history. Today, it seems obvious that a painting, even a still-life or a portrait, is in some sense a snapshot of a particular object at a particular time, but in the middle ages, Mary and Jesus, surrounded by angels, stare out at the spectator in a kind of calm eternity. They are objects of veneration. However, Giotto welcomes his viewers to imagine a specific moment in time. His paintings changed not only the history of art, but also the history of religion; according to Van Loon's Arts, Giotto's wonderful paintings of the life of Saint Francis of Assisi are what brought about such enormous popularity to this sect (indeed, the Franciscans are still around today, and I have a friend who is considering joining them, although he seems to be leaning closer to the Dominicans). I saw one of these paintings, and it was quite fantastic, capturing the moment in which Saint Francis received the stigmata (I also saw a very obvious imitation of it by a painter of the Sienese school, who lacked the creativity to compose his own tableau). In the same room, of a slightly later period, were two 15th-century monk-painters, Fra Angelico and Fra Filippo Lippi, who were lucky enough to be painting after Brunelleschi invented linear perspective, and also lucky enough to be patronized by the Medici. While Fra Angelico had an enormous love of bright color, Lippi played with light and shadow, and made great strides (to my eyes) in increasing the level of realism in painting, even going so far as to situate a self-portrait rather prominently in one painting. For those of you who don't know, Lippi was a great womanizer, and Cosimo de Medici often had to be patient with the monks debaucheries.
Yes, and so the Renaissance was beginning. The Louvre has several paintings by such illustrious artists as Titian, Raphael, and Leonardo da Vinci. Yes, I saw the Mona Lisa, although I wasn't paying as strict attention to it as the mob of tourists waiting in line to come within several meters of the painting. It turns out that the woman in the painting is actually a historical figure, and that the French title of the painting, "La Joconde," is actually a pun on her surname; the painting might have been intended as a wedding present, even though Francois I brought it home in his luggage after his wars in Italy. Facing the Mona Lisa is Veronese's huge, huge painting, "The Wedding of Cana," the largest painting in the Louvre; I have absolutely no idea how they even managed to transport it to its current location: they must have unrolled it, and constructed the frame inside of the gallery, and then hung the painting on a nail the size of a parking meter. The massive painting was commissioned by a Dominican monastery, who hung it in their dining hall. However, the Dominican order forbids speaking during mealtimes, so the lively painting, full of action and music (the musicians may have been modeled after musicians whom Veronese knew personally) ended up accompanying many a dour, silent meal. In the same gallery is hidden a fairly good painting entitled "Concert champetre," or "meadow concert;" the painting depicts a singer and a lute-player just about to begin playing, accompanied by two nudes. The composition is actually a clever allegory of poetry, and the inner and the meanings hidden between the lines, as represented by the two naked women. Not far from these is a colorful painting of Paradise that once hung over the throne of the doge, in Venice. The last painter not to miss in this room is a less-known Bassan, who decided to include depictions of daily life in his work, which was at the time an unusual choice. In a painting of what is ostensibly Hephaestus's forge, the artist visited a local smithy, and has meticulously portrayed the artisans at work; in another painting, Bassan took the same approach towards viticulture and wine-production.
There are a number of other interesting 16th-century paintings in the gallery. There is a series of four portraits, called the Four Seasons, by Arcimboldo, and presented to Maximilien II of the Holy Roman Empire in 1573. The painting, four portraits cleverly composed of various vegetable and floral arrangements, are actually symbolic palimpsests, simultaneously presenting the four seasons, the four humors, and the unity of an Empire that was a variegated hodgepodge of various nationalities, language-groups, and religions. There are some excellent religious paintings dating from the early Counter-Reformation, and particularly good are those painted by a fellow named Carrache, who also took the trouble to paint countryside scenes of fishing and hunting, towards the late 16th and early 17th centuries. One of the most unusual paintings of this section, however, is a large painting situated in the middle of the corridor, depicting the same scene from two different angles, one on one canvas, and another on a canvas on the opposite side. The scene is that of David about to decapitate Goliath with the latter's sword; from one side, one sees the faces of the two, and from the other, the backs; the painter's name is Danielle de Volterra.
In the Louvre's exhibit on Italian painting, between the 16th and the 17th centuries are two markers. The first is a large white urn, placed in the center in the hallway; the second is the series of works by Caravaggio (such as this one), who recreated painting. Developing (though not inventing) the method of clair-obscur, this painter completely changed the way painters depicted light, just as da Vinci had a century or so earlier. If you love the light of Vermeer, and the darkness of Rembrandt (as I do), you will know what I mean. Although I still prefer the work of the two Dutchmen to that of the Italian, it is only because the former have a special place in my heart. However, Caravaggio did more than transform style, he also made a drastic change in subject; although "humanist" is an overused and imprecise term, I believe that it characterizes his general elision of angels from his paintings. There are certainly exceptions to this (such as the painting of the Akedah), but when angels appear, they seem human, obeying the same laws of light and shadow as human subjects; likewise, even when halos appear, they are faint circles.
After Caravaggio, there are few remarkable paintings. Painters who I had not heard of, whom I will probably forget, such as Le Guerchin, Revi, Le Dominiquin, and Salvatore Rosa, dominated. This last painter has an interesting story, however. When he was young, he spent time with a group of bandits, and many of his paintings include violent themes. His most famous, "Bataille heroique," painted 1652, is intriguing, because it is anything but heroic; it is violence, pure and simple. The painting followed a series of extremely violent civil wars in France (which I have been reading about), and this painter decided to paint a battle without heroes, fought in a smoking, deserted landscape. Needless to say, Louis XIV wasn't too excited about it, and nobody paid much attention to it for a few centuries. Now, according to the Louvre curators, it is without a doubt his most famous painting.
That night, I went out with some Cornellians, and didn't get back until 4 am. It was a long day!
~JD
"Aucun d'eux ne pensait qu'un roi eleve dans l'eloignement des affaires osat prendre sur lui le fardeau de gouvernement. Mazarin avait prolonge l'enfance de ce monarque autant qu'il l'avait pu" [Not one of them thought that a king raised at a distance from the affairs of state would dare to take upon himself the burden of governing; Mazarin had prolonged the childhood of this monarch as much as he could] (Voltaire, Le Siecle de Louis XIV, p. 229).
Speaking of repetition, I spent (another) day at the Louvre this weekend. This weekend was the Day of Italian Paintings: that's virtually all I saw, but my itinerary took me from the medieval painters of the Sienese school to the canvases of the age of Louis XIV.
The curators of the Louvre have worked hard to present their Italian paintings in a historically coherent fashion, that nonetheless is free from strict chronology. They have converted a colossal second-floor hallway in the Denon wing, perhaps the longest continuous wing in the entire palace, into a gallery to display their great Italian treasures. I would guess that at least 20% of the paintings depicted the Madonna and child, even though by the middle of the seventeenth century, this motif is no longer in vogue. The earliest Italian paintings, those dating from the late 13th century, were in a side room, as was the Mona Lisa, but for the most part, the chronological trajectory was straight. Oh, and I also passed two famous Greek statues, dating from antiquity, on the way, "The Gladiator" (who actually isn't a gladiator), and the "Victory of Samothrace."
The first room contained some well-known names to those of you familiar with art history, or just with Dante's Divine Comedy. Cimabue and Giotto, two great painters of the 14th century, who, like all their contemporaries, painted only religious scenes. Whereas Cimabue's style places him squarely in the medieval school, on account of his highly impersonal representations of saints and angels outside of time and space, however well he executed them, Giotto began to innovate, and began to situate his paintings in time, at precise moments in history. Today, it seems obvious that a painting, even a still-life or a portrait, is in some sense a snapshot of a particular object at a particular time, but in the middle ages, Mary and Jesus, surrounded by angels, stare out at the spectator in a kind of calm eternity. They are objects of veneration. However, Giotto welcomes his viewers to imagine a specific moment in time. His paintings changed not only the history of art, but also the history of religion; according to Van Loon's Arts, Giotto's wonderful paintings of the life of Saint Francis of Assisi are what brought about such enormous popularity to this sect (indeed, the Franciscans are still around today, and I have a friend who is considering joining them, although he seems to be leaning closer to the Dominicans). I saw one of these paintings, and it was quite fantastic, capturing the moment in which Saint Francis received the stigmata (I also saw a very obvious imitation of it by a painter of the Sienese school, who lacked the creativity to compose his own tableau). In the same room, of a slightly later period, were two 15th-century monk-painters, Fra Angelico and Fra Filippo Lippi, who were lucky enough to be painting after Brunelleschi invented linear perspective, and also lucky enough to be patronized by the Medici. While Fra Angelico had an enormous love of bright color, Lippi played with light and shadow, and made great strides (to my eyes) in increasing the level of realism in painting, even going so far as to situate a self-portrait rather prominently in one painting. For those of you who don't know, Lippi was a great womanizer, and Cosimo de Medici often had to be patient with the monks debaucheries.
Yes, and so the Renaissance was beginning. The Louvre has several paintings by such illustrious artists as Titian, Raphael, and Leonardo da Vinci. Yes, I saw the Mona Lisa, although I wasn't paying as strict attention to it as the mob of tourists waiting in line to come within several meters of the painting. It turns out that the woman in the painting is actually a historical figure, and that the French title of the painting, "La Joconde," is actually a pun on her surname; the painting might have been intended as a wedding present, even though Francois I brought it home in his luggage after his wars in Italy. Facing the Mona Lisa is Veronese's huge, huge painting, "The Wedding of Cana," the largest painting in the Louvre; I have absolutely no idea how they even managed to transport it to its current location: they must have unrolled it, and constructed the frame inside of the gallery, and then hung the painting on a nail the size of a parking meter. The massive painting was commissioned by a Dominican monastery, who hung it in their dining hall. However, the Dominican order forbids speaking during mealtimes, so the lively painting, full of action and music (the musicians may have been modeled after musicians whom Veronese knew personally) ended up accompanying many a dour, silent meal. In the same gallery is hidden a fairly good painting entitled "Concert champetre," or "meadow concert;" the painting depicts a singer and a lute-player just about to begin playing, accompanied by two nudes. The composition is actually a clever allegory of poetry, and the inner and the meanings hidden between the lines, as represented by the two naked women. Not far from these is a colorful painting of Paradise that once hung over the throne of the doge, in Venice. The last painter not to miss in this room is a less-known Bassan, who decided to include depictions of daily life in his work, which was at the time an unusual choice. In a painting of what is ostensibly Hephaestus's forge, the artist visited a local smithy, and has meticulously portrayed the artisans at work; in another painting, Bassan took the same approach towards viticulture and wine-production.
There are a number of other interesting 16th-century paintings in the gallery. There is a series of four portraits, called the Four Seasons, by Arcimboldo, and presented to Maximilien II of the Holy Roman Empire in 1573. The painting, four portraits cleverly composed of various vegetable and floral arrangements, are actually symbolic palimpsests, simultaneously presenting the four seasons, the four humors, and the unity of an Empire that was a variegated hodgepodge of various nationalities, language-groups, and religions. There are some excellent religious paintings dating from the early Counter-Reformation, and particularly good are those painted by a fellow named Carrache, who also took the trouble to paint countryside scenes of fishing and hunting, towards the late 16th and early 17th centuries. One of the most unusual paintings of this section, however, is a large painting situated in the middle of the corridor, depicting the same scene from two different angles, one on one canvas, and another on a canvas on the opposite side. The scene is that of David about to decapitate Goliath with the latter's sword; from one side, one sees the faces of the two, and from the other, the backs; the painter's name is Danielle de Volterra.
In the Louvre's exhibit on Italian painting, between the 16th and the 17th centuries are two markers. The first is a large white urn, placed in the center in the hallway; the second is the series of works by Caravaggio (such as this one), who recreated painting. Developing (though not inventing) the method of clair-obscur, this painter completely changed the way painters depicted light, just as da Vinci had a century or so earlier. If you love the light of Vermeer, and the darkness of Rembrandt (as I do), you will know what I mean. Although I still prefer the work of the two Dutchmen to that of the Italian, it is only because the former have a special place in my heart. However, Caravaggio did more than transform style, he also made a drastic change in subject; although "humanist" is an overused and imprecise term, I believe that it characterizes his general elision of angels from his paintings. There are certainly exceptions to this (such as the painting of the Akedah), but when angels appear, they seem human, obeying the same laws of light and shadow as human subjects; likewise, even when halos appear, they are faint circles.
After Caravaggio, there are few remarkable paintings. Painters who I had not heard of, whom I will probably forget, such as Le Guerchin, Revi, Le Dominiquin, and Salvatore Rosa, dominated. This last painter has an interesting story, however. When he was young, he spent time with a group of bandits, and many of his paintings include violent themes. His most famous, "Bataille heroique," painted 1652, is intriguing, because it is anything but heroic; it is violence, pure and simple. The painting followed a series of extremely violent civil wars in France (which I have been reading about), and this painter decided to paint a battle without heroes, fought in a smoking, deserted landscape. Needless to say, Louis XIV wasn't too excited about it, and nobody paid much attention to it for a few centuries. Now, according to the Louvre curators, it is without a doubt his most famous painting.
That night, I went out with some Cornellians, and didn't get back until 4 am. It was a long day!
~JD
"Aucun d'eux ne pensait qu'un roi eleve dans l'eloignement des affaires osat prendre sur lui le fardeau de gouvernement. Mazarin avait prolonge l'enfance de ce monarque autant qu'il l'avait pu" [Not one of them thought that a king raised at a distance from the affairs of state would dare to take upon himself the burden of governing; Mazarin had prolonged the childhood of this monarch as much as he could] (Voltaire, Le Siecle de Louis XIV, p. 229).
Monday, September 26, 2011
Chateaux II: Return to the Loire!
Back to the Loire Valley, but this time, with EDUCO! The rendez-vous was at 7:45 in the 6th arrondissement, so I got up around 6:00, and trotted off to catch the bus. I slept through most of the bus ride out; at noon, we arrived in the village of Amboise, home of both the royal chateau of the same name, and Clos Luce (Da Vinci's house, if you remember that entry). We had until 1:30 to stroll through the town and eat lunch. I had made a sandwich the night before, which I ate as a checked out the ramparts of Amboise, even managing to take a picture of its funny-shaped exterior, from below. Still during lunch hour, I took a stroll to Clos Luce's Da Vinci Park, taking the opportunity to examine several of the gadgets, and listen to several parts of the Leonardo-guided tour, that I hadn't before. Particularly interesting was an explanation of his study of the "human machinery," and of his recognition of the similarities between a cow's stomach and our own, and a frog's nervous system, and our own; at one time, he had ten cadavers, which he had dissected.
I met back with the rest of the EDUCO students (and had a bit of a discussion with our guide about Gothic Flamboyant architecture), and we all visited Clos Luce as a group. I hadn't noticed it the first time around, but there is a secret underground passageway leading from the chateau of Amboise to Clos Luce (it's closed to visitors), which Francois I used to furtively visit da Vinci. I also hadn't noticed that Marguerite de Navarre had her own bedroom at Clos Luce, for her visits to her brother's hired genius.
Most people don't know about Marguerite de Navarre (aka Marguerite d'Angouleme), and I think that it's only fair that I introduce this exceptional woman. Queen of Navarre, and older sister of Francois I of France, Marguerite was a highly-social, highly-astute woman, best remembered today for her great work of literature, the Heptameron (modeled on Boccaccio's Decameron), a collection of seventy "framed" stories. However, she was a true Renaissance woman, and seemed to be everywhere, meeting everyone there is to meet in the Renaissance (her friendship and fascination with da Vinci is a perfect example of this). Apparently a quick thinker, she wrote while traveling in her carriage. A purveyor of tolerance, she offered shelter to the much-persecuted Protestants. Her statue now stands in the Jardin Luxembourg, and you can see my photo of it on Facebook.
After trotting around the Parc da Vinci, where I played the tour guide for a few of my friends, we hopped back on the bus, and traveled to one of my favorite chateaux -- Chenonceau, the queens' chateau with the two magnificent gardens. Again, I noticed a few things I hadn't before, such as the massive mother-of-pearl cabinet offered as a wedding present to Henri II and Catherine de Medicis by the Republic of Venice, and the Flemish tapestry illustrating this happy event. Our guide seemed to recognize my general interest for all of the history surrounding us, and happily chatted with my friend Ade and me about the furniture, paintings, architecture, and tapestries. As I've mentioned before, there is absolutely nothing like visiting a chateau with a historian, nothing like it at all.
Next stop was wine-tasting at Pere Auguste, a family-owned winery that produces Touraine wine. The business is fairly small, and it was one of the owners who gave us a tour of the presses and fermenting tanks. I nearly had a moment of confusion, due to the identical pronunciation of the words for "rooster" (coq) and "grapeskin" (coque). There were fruitflies in the winery, which was a bit unnerving, but the wine was quite good. There were four qualities -- white, red, rose, and sparkling -- and I'll admit that I preferred the Rose, but wasn't too wild about the red. The wine cost 15 Euros for three bottles, which is a very good deal in France, and the winery made quite a good revenue that day from the American tourists!
Back on the road, we arrived at the countryside hotel where we were to spend the night. We had rented out an entire building, where we were three-to-a-room. There were only five male students who had come on the trip, however, so Nick and I jumped to grab a double together (there are a few more boys who didn't show up, but yes, EDUCO is almost all girls, and every current staff member is female). After about 10-15 minutes just to put our things away, and find out in which room the cute girls were staying, we headed over to the dinner room, where we had a far, far better meal than I think anyone had expected. The sole vegetarian got an omelet and courgettes to go with his fusilli, but it was a good omelet. After dinner, our guide led us in some French drinking songs, "Les Chevaliers de la Table Ronde," and "Buvons un coup, buvons en deux."
Soon after dinner, the party started. I hadn't realized it, but many of my classmates had purchased wine in order to consume it that night, together. I couldn't contribute much, but my friends were more than happy to share. We had a pretty good time, sitting together in the middle of a field, and playing various games designed to divulge our sexual lives. I managed to teach Dead Monkey to the rest, which went over surprisingly well. I had a very good time, and didn't get trashed.
Next morning, up at seven. Not fun, after a night like that! Still, Nick and I stumbled over to the breakfast room, beating the rest of the bleary-eyed crowd. Before long, we hopped back on the bus, headed for Blois.
I'd like to retract every negative statement I made about the royal chateau of Blois in my last entry on the town (published about six weeks ago). Although I maintain that the town feels like a tourist trap, and that the Maison de la Magie just across the way is a cheesy swindle, the only fault I have with Blois is that photography is forbidden, and my only quarrel with our tour of the chateau is that it was too quick. The chateau is absolutely fantastic, architecturally, because there are four distinct historical building periods discernible to the naked eye, even to me. Standing in the central courtyard, one look at the red-brick 15th-century Italian-style Gothic flamboyant wing constructed under Louis XII, turn ninety degrees to see the amazing 16th-century Renaissance wing ordered by Francois I, and turn another ninety degrees to see the unfinished 17th-century Classical wing ordered by Gaston, duc d'Orleans. When Gaston was in the midst of construction, his brother, Louis XIII, had a son; suddenly, Gaston was no longer heir to the throne of France. His allowance being cut off in such an abrupt fashion, he lacked the funds to complete his architectural plans, let alone demolish the older sections of the castle, as he had planned. For this reason, the conglomeration exists as it does today. Blois has been fabulously and meticulously restored with paintings, tapestries, and furniture, almost as well as Langeais. The castle is the site of a famous murder, that of Henri II's brother, who during the wars of religion was supported by the ultra-catholic faction; with the support of the first estate and a large section of the third, he was likely to become king. Henri disposed of him, summoning him to his (Henri's) presence, where he (the duc) would be without his customary bodyguard. Months later, in a fabulous boomerang effect, Henri II was himself assassinated. This event was followed by the War of the Three Henris (I'm not kidding about this), leaving, finally, Henri IV, founder of the Bourbon dynasty, and author of the Edict of Nantes, as king, in the last decade of the 16th century. Naturally, Henri IV was assassinated only a few years afterward... You can also see the secret cabinets, concealed in the wall, where Catherine de Medicis hid important documents of state, etc. (no, not poison).
Next up was another castle I had not visited, the Chateau de Beauregard. To be honest, it's nothing more than a hunting lodge, owned by Henri II's secretary of state. The building itself is not terribly interesting, historically, nor particularly beautiful; the grounds are abundant, but none too interesting. The floor and walls of the upstairs gallery, however, are the real treasure trove of the chateau. The floor is finely decorated with delft porcelain tiles, depicting a 16th-century army on the march, each row of tiles depicting a soldier bearing different arms. The walls, meanwhile, are covered with dozens of portraits, depicting the principal actors in French politics, reign-by-reign, from the time of the Hundred Years' War until the time of Louis XIV, the sun king. Our guide gave us a rapid explanation, explaining who was who. Many of the historical personages were not even French; Francois I was situated beside Suleiman the Magnificent, and Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire.
Following the tour was one of the most sumptuous and gourmet meals I believe I have ever had, and certainly the nicest I have had in the last few year. We sat in the Orangerie, and enjoyed plate after plate of fine French food -- couscous, tomato, quiche, salad, wine, cheese, good bread, decent red wine, strawberries in wine, etc. There was good company too (I sat with some very cool people, including all four of the other male students on the trip), and though several unforeseen events did occur, they served more as conversational topics than as anything capable of ruining a meal. The first was the fat spider I spotted floating in my wine, after I had taken no more than a couple of sips. The second was the fact that, unlike at the hotel where we stayed the night, the Orangerie had not prepared a vegetarian meal in advance for me, so they just threw together an omelet (surprise, surprise), but at least they didn't complain. When David found a lock of hair in his salad, we assumed that it was meant for me, who had had the temerity to mention the spider.
The waitress had kindly brought our whole table a new jug of wine after the arachnid incident, and so I drank a little bit more than I should have; I still felt a buzz when we arrived at Chambord, the great pleasure-house of Francois I. The chateau is so vast that in my two visits, I still haven't seen everything, but I did notice a few points of interested that I had missed on my first round. The first was the office, complete with furniture, where Louis XIV had dictated the repeal of the Edict of Nantes (he signed it at Fountainbleu). I had also missed the beds of Louis and of the king of Poland, and one of the three titanic ceramic stoves installed by the Marechal of Saxe (all three men were proprietors, at one time or another). I also visited the rooms dedicated to the Compte de Chambord, so-called Henri V, reading about the man on whose shoulders so much royalist hope rested, the "miracle child" born after the assassination of his father.
We sadly had very little time to visit the chateaux, but the trip was amazing. I dozed for part of the bus ride back to Paris, and also played Contact with the other students. Now I'm back, class has begun at La Sorbonne, and I'm (finally) making some French friends. Hope all is well with you.
~JD
"Enfin le regime egalitaire -- qui serait l'acte de tolerance --les deux confessions placees sur le meme pied, le culte de l'une et l'autre librement exerce partout cote a cote, la participation a la vie publique assuree a tous -- cette solution n'est pas plus realisable, les esprits et les moeurs s'y opposant; et c'est l'explication majeure des difficultes rencontrees par Henri IV pour retablir la paix a l'interiuer de son royaume"[By the end, the establishment of an egalitarian regime -- in other words, an act of tolerance, the two sects placed on equal footing, both cults freely exercised everywhere, side-by-side, participation in public life guaranteed for all -- this solution was no longer possible, with feelings and mores in such opposition; and this is the major explanation of the difficulties encountered by Henri IV in bringing peace to the interior of his kingdom] (Robert Mandou, Introduction a la France moderne, 173-174).
I met back with the rest of the EDUCO students (and had a bit of a discussion with our guide about Gothic Flamboyant architecture), and we all visited Clos Luce as a group. I hadn't noticed it the first time around, but there is a secret underground passageway leading from the chateau of Amboise to Clos Luce (it's closed to visitors), which Francois I used to furtively visit da Vinci. I also hadn't noticed that Marguerite de Navarre had her own bedroom at Clos Luce, for her visits to her brother's hired genius.
Most people don't know about Marguerite de Navarre (aka Marguerite d'Angouleme), and I think that it's only fair that I introduce this exceptional woman. Queen of Navarre, and older sister of Francois I of France, Marguerite was a highly-social, highly-astute woman, best remembered today for her great work of literature, the Heptameron (modeled on Boccaccio's Decameron), a collection of seventy "framed" stories. However, she was a true Renaissance woman, and seemed to be everywhere, meeting everyone there is to meet in the Renaissance (her friendship and fascination with da Vinci is a perfect example of this). Apparently a quick thinker, she wrote while traveling in her carriage. A purveyor of tolerance, she offered shelter to the much-persecuted Protestants. Her statue now stands in the Jardin Luxembourg, and you can see my photo of it on Facebook.
After trotting around the Parc da Vinci, where I played the tour guide for a few of my friends, we hopped back on the bus, and traveled to one of my favorite chateaux -- Chenonceau, the queens' chateau with the two magnificent gardens. Again, I noticed a few things I hadn't before, such as the massive mother-of-pearl cabinet offered as a wedding present to Henri II and Catherine de Medicis by the Republic of Venice, and the Flemish tapestry illustrating this happy event. Our guide seemed to recognize my general interest for all of the history surrounding us, and happily chatted with my friend Ade and me about the furniture, paintings, architecture, and tapestries. As I've mentioned before, there is absolutely nothing like visiting a chateau with a historian, nothing like it at all.
Next stop was wine-tasting at Pere Auguste, a family-owned winery that produces Touraine wine. The business is fairly small, and it was one of the owners who gave us a tour of the presses and fermenting tanks. I nearly had a moment of confusion, due to the identical pronunciation of the words for "rooster" (coq) and "grapeskin" (coque). There were fruitflies in the winery, which was a bit unnerving, but the wine was quite good. There were four qualities -- white, red, rose, and sparkling -- and I'll admit that I preferred the Rose, but wasn't too wild about the red. The wine cost 15 Euros for three bottles, which is a very good deal in France, and the winery made quite a good revenue that day from the American tourists!
Back on the road, we arrived at the countryside hotel where we were to spend the night. We had rented out an entire building, where we were three-to-a-room. There were only five male students who had come on the trip, however, so Nick and I jumped to grab a double together (there are a few more boys who didn't show up, but yes, EDUCO is almost all girls, and every current staff member is female). After about 10-15 minutes just to put our things away, and find out in which room the cute girls were staying, we headed over to the dinner room, where we had a far, far better meal than I think anyone had expected. The sole vegetarian got an omelet and courgettes to go with his fusilli, but it was a good omelet. After dinner, our guide led us in some French drinking songs, "Les Chevaliers de la Table Ronde," and "Buvons un coup, buvons en deux."
Soon after dinner, the party started. I hadn't realized it, but many of my classmates had purchased wine in order to consume it that night, together. I couldn't contribute much, but my friends were more than happy to share. We had a pretty good time, sitting together in the middle of a field, and playing various games designed to divulge our sexual lives. I managed to teach Dead Monkey to the rest, which went over surprisingly well. I had a very good time, and didn't get trashed.
Next morning, up at seven. Not fun, after a night like that! Still, Nick and I stumbled over to the breakfast room, beating the rest of the bleary-eyed crowd. Before long, we hopped back on the bus, headed for Blois.
I'd like to retract every negative statement I made about the royal chateau of Blois in my last entry on the town (published about six weeks ago). Although I maintain that the town feels like a tourist trap, and that the Maison de la Magie just across the way is a cheesy swindle, the only fault I have with Blois is that photography is forbidden, and my only quarrel with our tour of the chateau is that it was too quick. The chateau is absolutely fantastic, architecturally, because there are four distinct historical building periods discernible to the naked eye, even to me. Standing in the central courtyard, one look at the red-brick 15th-century Italian-style Gothic flamboyant wing constructed under Louis XII, turn ninety degrees to see the amazing 16th-century Renaissance wing ordered by Francois I, and turn another ninety degrees to see the unfinished 17th-century Classical wing ordered by Gaston, duc d'Orleans. When Gaston was in the midst of construction, his brother, Louis XIII, had a son; suddenly, Gaston was no longer heir to the throne of France. His allowance being cut off in such an abrupt fashion, he lacked the funds to complete his architectural plans, let alone demolish the older sections of the castle, as he had planned. For this reason, the conglomeration exists as it does today. Blois has been fabulously and meticulously restored with paintings, tapestries, and furniture, almost as well as Langeais. The castle is the site of a famous murder, that of Henri II's brother, who during the wars of religion was supported by the ultra-catholic faction; with the support of the first estate and a large section of the third, he was likely to become king. Henri disposed of him, summoning him to his (Henri's) presence, where he (the duc) would be without his customary bodyguard. Months later, in a fabulous boomerang effect, Henri II was himself assassinated. This event was followed by the War of the Three Henris (I'm not kidding about this), leaving, finally, Henri IV, founder of the Bourbon dynasty, and author of the Edict of Nantes, as king, in the last decade of the 16th century. Naturally, Henri IV was assassinated only a few years afterward... You can also see the secret cabinets, concealed in the wall, where Catherine de Medicis hid important documents of state, etc. (no, not poison).
Next up was another castle I had not visited, the Chateau de Beauregard. To be honest, it's nothing more than a hunting lodge, owned by Henri II's secretary of state. The building itself is not terribly interesting, historically, nor particularly beautiful; the grounds are abundant, but none too interesting. The floor and walls of the upstairs gallery, however, are the real treasure trove of the chateau. The floor is finely decorated with delft porcelain tiles, depicting a 16th-century army on the march, each row of tiles depicting a soldier bearing different arms. The walls, meanwhile, are covered with dozens of portraits, depicting the principal actors in French politics, reign-by-reign, from the time of the Hundred Years' War until the time of Louis XIV, the sun king. Our guide gave us a rapid explanation, explaining who was who. Many of the historical personages were not even French; Francois I was situated beside Suleiman the Magnificent, and Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire.
Following the tour was one of the most sumptuous and gourmet meals I believe I have ever had, and certainly the nicest I have had in the last few year. We sat in the Orangerie, and enjoyed plate after plate of fine French food -- couscous, tomato, quiche, salad, wine, cheese, good bread, decent red wine, strawberries in wine, etc. There was good company too (I sat with some very cool people, including all four of the other male students on the trip), and though several unforeseen events did occur, they served more as conversational topics than as anything capable of ruining a meal. The first was the fat spider I spotted floating in my wine, after I had taken no more than a couple of sips. The second was the fact that, unlike at the hotel where we stayed the night, the Orangerie had not prepared a vegetarian meal in advance for me, so they just threw together an omelet (surprise, surprise), but at least they didn't complain. When David found a lock of hair in his salad, we assumed that it was meant for me, who had had the temerity to mention the spider.
The waitress had kindly brought our whole table a new jug of wine after the arachnid incident, and so I drank a little bit more than I should have; I still felt a buzz when we arrived at Chambord, the great pleasure-house of Francois I. The chateau is so vast that in my two visits, I still haven't seen everything, but I did notice a few points of interested that I had missed on my first round. The first was the office, complete with furniture, where Louis XIV had dictated the repeal of the Edict of Nantes (he signed it at Fountainbleu). I had also missed the beds of Louis and of the king of Poland, and one of the three titanic ceramic stoves installed by the Marechal of Saxe (all three men were proprietors, at one time or another). I also visited the rooms dedicated to the Compte de Chambord, so-called Henri V, reading about the man on whose shoulders so much royalist hope rested, the "miracle child" born after the assassination of his father.
We sadly had very little time to visit the chateaux, but the trip was amazing. I dozed for part of the bus ride back to Paris, and also played Contact with the other students. Now I'm back, class has begun at La Sorbonne, and I'm (finally) making some French friends. Hope all is well with you.
~JD
"Enfin le regime egalitaire -- qui serait l'acte de tolerance --les deux confessions placees sur le meme pied, le culte de l'une et l'autre librement exerce partout cote a cote, la participation a la vie publique assuree a tous -- cette solution n'est pas plus realisable, les esprits et les moeurs s'y opposant; et c'est l'explication majeure des difficultes rencontrees par Henri IV pour retablir la paix a l'interiuer de son royaume"[By the end, the establishment of an egalitarian regime -- in other words, an act of tolerance, the two sects placed on equal footing, both cults freely exercised everywhere, side-by-side, participation in public life guaranteed for all -- this solution was no longer possible, with feelings and mores in such opposition; and this is the major explanation of the difficulties encountered by Henri IV in bringing peace to the interior of his kingdom] (Robert Mandou, Introduction a la France moderne, 173-174).
Monday, September 12, 2011
A trip to the Louvre
I spent a good six hours at the Louvre yesterday, looking at art and artifacts until I simply couldn’t bear to look at any more. All in all, though, I think that I passed through about 15% of the rooms, and probably didn’t “see” everything those rooms had to offer! Notwithstanding, I had a fantastic time, and saw some truly amazing pieces: however, not one of them was one of the items, such as da Vinci’s Mona Lisa (aka La Joconde) or the Venus de Milo, for which the Louvre is famous. The highest-profile object I saw, in fact, was the collection of crown jewels, which had almost no historical information posted -- the signs mostly just listed the number of precious stones which decorated each ornament (as with so many other institutions, it was Francois I who began the collection of “crown jewels”). So I’ve taken the trouble to name a few of the pieces which I saw which I thought were worth the trouble to find, and to which I can ascribe the highest interest-to-traffic ratio.
1) The first self-portrait: around the year 1450, Jean Foquet made a palm-sized engraving on a gold medallion of his own face. His is the first self-portrait, in all of Occidental art history, of which we know. It is well-executed, too, Fouquet having used extremely fine tools, including a needle, to scratch textured patterns on the black enamel. The birth of the self-portrait is very much associated with the Renaissance, in the spirit of the displacement of older, impersonal forms of representation: Ghiberti’s knoblike little bust appears on his famous golden doors, for instance. It is therefore surprising to find that the first self-portrait is not only found in France, and not in Italy, but appeared before the real burst of Italian influence in French art and architecture, inaugurated by Francois I. All the more reason to argue against a single monumental event, “the Renaissance,” in favor of the transitions and trends which confront the historian in nearly all lands and ages.
2) Helmet and shield of Charles IX: Created circa 1572, these gold armaments are for decoration, not for combat. The detail of the decoration of the shield is extremely fine, an example of the work of the school of Fontainebleau, and depicts the exploits of the Roman general Marius. (For those of you who don’t know, Marius was a sort of proto-Caesar, the general who professionalized the Roman army, and declared himself dictator-for-life, although he actually retired late in his career.) The cloth on the back of the shield is also very rich.
3) Napoleon’s tableware: displayed in one china closet are forty elements of one of Napoleon I’s 60-piece tableware. What is amazing about this set in particular is that the designs on the plates, each of which is unique, are based upon entries in Diderot’s Encyclopedia. There are scenes of people working, in workshops, fields, mills, smithies, and mines; there is a scene of young men swimming; there are humorous scenes depicting a schoolmaster. The set was completed by the Sevres porcelain industry, founded in 1740. Adjacent to the Encyclopedia collection is one of Napoleon I’s tea services, called the “Cabaret Egyptien,” completed 1808-1810. Each unique piece in the service depicts a person, place, or monument from General Bonaparte’s (he wasn’t yet emperor) Egyptian campaigns. There are portraits of sheiks, of beggars, of Beduins, and of a Jerusalem Jew; there are quiet oases and towering pyramids.
4) Cycladic figurines: There are galleries and galleries of fantastic Ancient Greek art, mostly pottery, which, if you have the patience to look carefully at the displays, and to listen attentively to the audio guide, will gradually walk you through the various styles, as they evolved, shifted, and went in and out of fashion, from the 3rd millennium B.C.E. to the 4th century BCE. One room, in six steps, shows the transition in sculpture, and contains a case of the feminine figurines, c. 2700-2300 BCE, and native to the Cyclades, most of which are just a few inches tall, but some of which achieved a height of several feet (the head still exists of one of these). Not only do these represent some of the earliest known art known in the western world, but there is a bit of a historical controversy swirling around these white clay manikins. Most of the figurines are in the shape of a standing naked woman with her arms crossed below her breasts, which has led some to claim that they were the work of a peaceful feminist society that was later displaced by hordes of the violent, misogynistic Hellenes, with the male-dominated mythology we all know and love. Regardless, the figurines have a mysterious and antique beauty, with their curving noses and rigid postures.
5) The scepter of Charles V: Charles had his golden scepter topped with a figurine of Charlemagne, the first Holy Roman Emperor (crowned Christmas Day, 800), to symbolically legitimize the Capetian occupancy of the throne, with deliberate links to antiquity. The scepter is extremely well-preserved, having lost only the white enamel that covered the fleur-de-lys budding beneath Charlemagne’s throne.
6) In this series of colorful Renaissance tapestries, each piece depicts hunting in one month. There is a great deal of action, and scenes of the life of the nobility, found throughout. The artists did not hesitate to include the odd scatological element: in July, right in the foreground of the piece, is a dog doing its business.
7) Jewel cabinet of Empress Josephine: elegantly ornamented with classical scenes and a butterfly motif, this large dresser later passed on to Napoleon’s second wife, after he divorced Josephine. The piece is one of the best-preserved in the Imperial style.
8) Objets d’art from Limoges: Among the piles and piles of medieval relics and sacred objects of gold and ivory found in the Louvre are several rooms filled mostly with the products of goldsmiths’ workshops in Limoges, a region in Southwest France. The Limoges artisans had a very recognizable style, using the same colors of light blue and pale green precious stones, very shallow lines, and faces of traced characters in relief.
9) Throne of Napoleon I: The blue-and-gold seat is surprisingly modest, given the kind of pomp to which Napoleon was given in his imperial garb. Moreover, just around the corner, you can see a painting of the throne, in the background of a full-length portrait of Napoleon I. Either the chair has been well-restored, or has been well-preserved, because the colors seem not to have faded at all!
10) Tapestry of Saint Martin: I found my old friend, Saint Martin, in an Icelandic hagiographic tapestry, dating from between the 14th and 16th centuries. I recognized many of the scenes: the cutting of the cloak, the healing of the sick, the raising from the dead of a hanged man, and the transportation on board a ship of Saint Martin’s remains. A very good tapestry, but mostly interesting just for old times’ sake!
Thank you, Bruno, for inviting me to your apartment! I had a wonderful time with you on Sunday evening, and look forward to seeing you and your family again soon. Maybe your daughter won’t be so afraid of me next time…
~JD
“Mille pensers dormaient, chrysalides funebres/ Fremissant doucement dans les lourdes tenebres,/ Qui degagent leur aile et prennent leur essor,/ Tentes d’azure, glaces de rose, lames d’or” [A thousand thoughts slept, funereal chrysalises, softly shaking in the heavy dusk, which lift wing and take flight, tinted with azure, iced with pink, bladed with gold]. ~Beaudelaire, "XLVIII. -- Le Flacon”
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Azay-le-Rideau
Today, I took the bus to Azay-le-Rideau, another chateau in the Loire Valley. Like so many other chateaux I have visited, Azay-le-Rideau passed through the hands of Francois I, although he only slept there for two nights (he also spent an afternoon there). I arrived just in time for the guided tour -- in French, naturally, but French for genuine francophones, rather than the slow, simple French of the genial professor of civilization at the Institute. Therefore, I’m not entirely certain that I correctly understood everything he said: I have decided, for this reason, not to copy from my notes certain facts, such as the construction of the façade by purple elephants, and the secret passageway to San Francisco.
In 1510 Gilles Berthelot, an important courtier at the courts of both Charles VIII and Francois I, acquired the old stronghold of Azay, and decided to build himself a new castle in its place, in the Italian style. Berthelot was not a nobleman, but a banker, and when the bankers suffered royal persecution -- prosecution, of course, I mean -- in 1528, and his personal protector at court was executed, Berthelot fled, and Francois I happily took possession of the chateau, handing it over to Antoine Raffin, whose family possessed it until you-know-what in 1791. The state has owned Azay-le-Rideau since 1901. A token of its original owner, the façade still bears a pair of prominent sculpted Gs, for Gilles. Now converted into bathrooms and a gift shop are the old stables. There were originally two: one for workhorses, the other for riding-horses. Horses, and thus the buildings they inhabited, were an enormous mark of prestige.
With all of the campaigns in Italy of Charles VIII, continued by Francois, Italian architecture had begun to interest the French, especially the bourgeoisie, of which Berthelot was a member. While there are many Italian features of architecture in Azay-le-Rideau -- such as pillars and pilasters in classical orders, and a square staircase -- there are many older features as well. However, one Italian feature in is evident: the preeminence of the design of the inside over the design of the outside. It may seem obvious to us that, seeing as houses are meant to be lived in, living space is more important than outward appearance, but this has not been the architectural consensus in all times and places. For this reason, a few parts of the façade are irregular on the outside, because the living spaces they covered took priority. Unfortunately, Berthelot never finished the chateau’s exterior, and for this reason, there are many empty niches; however, he remembered to include a salamander, symbol of Francois I. The two towers that flank the main building are also somewhat newer.
The 2nd floor (in France, the 1st) contains the bedchambers of the residents, as well as the party room: for this reason, the guides call it the floor of nobility. The party room (the word is used somewhat differently chez JD) is still available for rental, for a mere 3,000 Euros a night. The decorations of the whole floor are quite magnificent, many dating from the 16th century. There were several magnificent tapestries depicting biblical scenes; particularly good was the tapestry showing the Queen of Sheba’s visit to King Solomon. Other tapestries showed the complete love-affair of Cupid and Psyche. Unlike the el-cheapo tapestry from Amboise, these tapestries had many characters (all of whose hands were visible), and what were once vibrant reds. Imported from Mexico, red dyes were quite precious. The quickest-fading color on tapestries, apparently, is yellow. Many of the tapestries were wholly Gothic in style; what differentiates a Gothic tapestry from a Renaissance tapestry? A Medieval Gothic tapestry depicts many people, but no perspective; a Renaissance tapestry depicts relatively fewer people, but puts them in perspective (I believe it was Brunelleschi who developed perspective).
There were quite a few pieces of highly-prized furniture, including a French tortoiseshell cabinet, and 1620 Portuguese ebony cabinet, and a 16th-century Spanish cabinet. The latter were part of a huge craze in the early 16th century -- all of the nobles had to have their Spanish cabinets. I wasn’t quite certain about this, and the guide gave me a very exasperated why-do-you-anglophones-need-to-bother-my-tour look when I asked about it, but one Spanish cabinet was involved in some sort of poisoning plot in the reign of Francois I. One room was filled with portraits of several generations of French monarchs, from the late middle ages through the early modern period. One particularly striking full-length portrait of Louis XIII had an unusual history: it had originally depicted a different patron, who decided not to pay. Therefore, the artist simply repainted the face, and sold it to the king. Louis XIII himself inhabited the chateau for some time, while he was ill, but was eventually restored by means of some cherry syrup. Meanwhile, the 3rd floor, meanwhile contains a real historical treasure: the degree of skill in the carpentry of the roof was an enormous novelty at the time, at least according to the historian of carpentry who recently visited the chateau.
On the way out, I learned that Balzac had visited the chateau, and it had served as the model for the setting of one of his stories, in which he depicted the castle as a jewel. I had to leave fairly quickly, in order to catch my bus back to town. Tomorrow, I plan to visit another chateau, perhaps Villandry. Misaki, with whom I sat at the guinguette last night, described Azay-le-Rideau as mignon, meaning cute. This is a good way to sum up the castle: it is not enormous like Chambord, as beautiful as Chenonceau, or as historically fascinating as Notre-Dame de Chartres, but it is an important part of the pattern of the chateaux of the Loire Valley.
~JD
“Aux coups d’Etat ‘type 18 fructidor’ succedaient les coups d’Etat de droite (’22 floreal’) suivis, eux-memes, par une deuxieme vague jacobine, contemporaine des evenements de prairial an VII” [The coups d’Etat in the style of Fructidor 18th were succeeded by rightist coups (22 Floreal), which were themselves followed by a second wave of Jacobinism, contemporary to the events of June 1799] (Denis Woronoff, La republique bourgeoise, p. 181).
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Chez Leonardo da Vinci
In my final excursion with the Institute of Touraine, I visited the Chateau Royal d'Amboise, and the nearby Chateau Clos Luce. The latter was the home of Leonardo da Vinci for the last few years of his life, and the latter was the home of his benefactor, Francois I. The chapel of Amboise, moreover, contains da Vinci's tomb.
Only a very small portion of the Chateau d'Amboise remains. Moreover, what remains is one of the more incongruous and unusual portions of the castle (thank goodness we have a 16th-century sketch of what the castle once looked like). Amboise is not far from Tours, only a 20-30 bus ride away, and standing on the ramparts, it was just possible to make out Tours's Cathedral Saint-Gatien on the horizon. The ramparts, in fact, offered a fantastic view, evidence of the chateau's original military purpose. The castle was originally built for defense, and the oldest remaining portion of the castle was constructed by Charles VIII (r. 1483-1498): he built in a late-Medieval style Gothic style, throwing symmetry to the winds.
Charles loved tapestries, and the chateau still contains some of his tapestries, as well as some of his furniture. In the Middle Ages, the higher one's status, the higher one's living space; monarchs had the unlucky obligation to occupy the upper floors of the frigid stone castles, which are so wonderful to visit in the summertime. Hence, the need for tapestries, which served as insulation first, and decoration second. Ornamental tapestries, however, were quite expensive, and a fairly large demand grew, among the not-so-wealthy, for cheaper tapestries. For this reason, a reduced-cost tapestry industry began to prosper in La Marche, a region of central France southeast of Tours. We saw one such tapestry in Amboise today, depicting a Roman triumph. How exactly can one identify it as reduced-cost? There are several clues: the triumph includes only one trumpeter and one dog; there are very few bright colors, and absolutely no red; the background is largely the natural color of wool; and very few hands, which are very complex shapes, are in view.
Most of the chateau was built by Francois I, whom we have already met; he began the construction of Chambord, he was a friend of Ronsard's, and he might have had sex with Diane de Poitiers. His additions made Amboise the first Italian-Renaissance-influenced chateau in the Loire Valley. Classically-influenced pillars, a greater attention to symmetry, and less cluttered detail are all Renaissance signatures.
The best part of Amboise is the late-Gothic chapel. The current building was the private chapel of the king and queen; the old chateau once included not only a main church, but also a monastery. The stained glass is colorful; the vaulted ceiling seems more rib than arch; and to the left of the entrance is Leonardo da Vinci's tomb. The photo, which embarrassingly includes my shadow, will be on Facebook presently (note: I have already uploaded my second batch of photos, though, to the same album). There was a large group of Italian tourists behind us, waiting to squeeze in (it was a private chapel, remember).
Sadly, very little remains of chateau, a victim of Revolutionary budget cuts.
Just a brief stroll down the street of Amboise, under 10 minutes from the royal chateau, is the much smaller chateau of Clos Luce, which is not very remarkable, except for the fact that it was the home of Leonardo da Vinci, one of the most famous artists and thinkers who ever lived. There are really two aspects of his old home; the chateau and the grounds. The chateau is fairly small, and there is very little original architecture or furniture to enlighten one about its famous occupant. One can see the gallery where Leonardo threw his parties, complete with fireworks, but that is really it. Downstairs are replicas, constructed by IBM, of a collection of his different inventions. Da Vinci was fascinated with motion, and his sketchbook bears out this fact.
Da Vinci was finished with painting by the time he retired to Clos Luce in his sixties. Although he continued to work very hard as an architect, city planner, and landscape architect for Francois I, the few paintings produced by him while in Amboise were the work of his apprentices' hands. Francois I granted da Vinci the land, and gave him sufficient money to do as he pleased, although da Vinci was not fabulously wealthy. Francois was a great fan of artists, in the Italian tradition; he paid visits to Ronsard at the Priory of Saint Cosmo (rather than the other way around; see earlier entry for Ronsard info), and called da Vinci his father. Displayed downstairs in Clos Luce, on the wall behind the model of a water-raising device, is the text of da Vinci's 1482 letter to Ludovico Sforza, in which he describes ten of the inventions with which he can furnish an employer. Everything he lists is either a war machine or manipulates water in some way: he describes bridges, siege engines and siege techniques, armored chariots, and the like.
Outside, these dreams of his are realized. The people of Amboise have done a beautiful thing: they have taken their history and made it public, inviting, charming, and free of charge. The da Vinci park, just behind the chateau, contains da Vinci's inventions of the size he intended. I have walked over a turnstile-bridge he designed, and seen children playing on da Vinci's tank, helicopter, treadmill, Archimedean water-screw, and more. I have seen happy tourists transverse the stream in da Vinci's paddleboat (cost: 2 Euros for a boat, which holds up to five; the second good deal I have seen since I have arrived in France). Periodically, one can listen to audio recordings of passages from da Vinci's notebooks, available in one of 4 languages, and performed by excellent voice-actors. There is absolutely nothing crass about the entire park; the landscape without the models would be phenomenal, as would the models without the park. In the da Vinci Park, people can touch, see, hear, and understand intellectual history in a way that is inviting, informative, and genuine.
Oh, yes, and I forgot where the bus was on the way back, and was about 6 minutes late. I had a fantastic conversation with the professor on the way back, about teaching history.
~JD
"Pour nombre de deputes, le drame de Thermidor fut, comme le proces du roi, celui de leur conscience. En condamnant des hommes qui incarnaient la Revolution, ils reniaient une cause qu'ils avaient eux-memes servie" [For numerous delegates, the drama of Thermidor was, like the trial of the king, one of conscience. In condemning the men who embodied the Revoltion, they were repudiating a cause which they had themselves served] (Marc Bouloiseau, La Republique jacobine, p. 248).
Only a very small portion of the Chateau d'Amboise remains. Moreover, what remains is one of the more incongruous and unusual portions of the castle (thank goodness we have a 16th-century sketch of what the castle once looked like). Amboise is not far from Tours, only a 20-30 bus ride away, and standing on the ramparts, it was just possible to make out Tours's Cathedral Saint-Gatien on the horizon. The ramparts, in fact, offered a fantastic view, evidence of the chateau's original military purpose. The castle was originally built for defense, and the oldest remaining portion of the castle was constructed by Charles VIII (r. 1483-1498): he built in a late-Medieval style Gothic style, throwing symmetry to the winds.
Charles loved tapestries, and the chateau still contains some of his tapestries, as well as some of his furniture. In the Middle Ages, the higher one's status, the higher one's living space; monarchs had the unlucky obligation to occupy the upper floors of the frigid stone castles, which are so wonderful to visit in the summertime. Hence, the need for tapestries, which served as insulation first, and decoration second. Ornamental tapestries, however, were quite expensive, and a fairly large demand grew, among the not-so-wealthy, for cheaper tapestries. For this reason, a reduced-cost tapestry industry began to prosper in La Marche, a region of central France southeast of Tours. We saw one such tapestry in Amboise today, depicting a Roman triumph. How exactly can one identify it as reduced-cost? There are several clues: the triumph includes only one trumpeter and one dog; there are very few bright colors, and absolutely no red; the background is largely the natural color of wool; and very few hands, which are very complex shapes, are in view.
Most of the chateau was built by Francois I, whom we have already met; he began the construction of Chambord, he was a friend of Ronsard's, and he might have had sex with Diane de Poitiers. His additions made Amboise the first Italian-Renaissance-influenced chateau in the Loire Valley. Classically-influenced pillars, a greater attention to symmetry, and less cluttered detail are all Renaissance signatures.
The best part of Amboise is the late-Gothic chapel. The current building was the private chapel of the king and queen; the old chateau once included not only a main church, but also a monastery. The stained glass is colorful; the vaulted ceiling seems more rib than arch; and to the left of the entrance is Leonardo da Vinci's tomb. The photo, which embarrassingly includes my shadow, will be on Facebook presently (note: I have already uploaded my second batch of photos, though, to the same album). There was a large group of Italian tourists behind us, waiting to squeeze in (it was a private chapel, remember).
Sadly, very little remains of chateau, a victim of Revolutionary budget cuts.
Just a brief stroll down the street of Amboise, under 10 minutes from the royal chateau, is the much smaller chateau of Clos Luce, which is not very remarkable, except for the fact that it was the home of Leonardo da Vinci, one of the most famous artists and thinkers who ever lived. There are really two aspects of his old home; the chateau and the grounds. The chateau is fairly small, and there is very little original architecture or furniture to enlighten one about its famous occupant. One can see the gallery where Leonardo threw his parties, complete with fireworks, but that is really it. Downstairs are replicas, constructed by IBM, of a collection of his different inventions. Da Vinci was fascinated with motion, and his sketchbook bears out this fact.
Da Vinci was finished with painting by the time he retired to Clos Luce in his sixties. Although he continued to work very hard as an architect, city planner, and landscape architect for Francois I, the few paintings produced by him while in Amboise were the work of his apprentices' hands. Francois I granted da Vinci the land, and gave him sufficient money to do as he pleased, although da Vinci was not fabulously wealthy. Francois was a great fan of artists, in the Italian tradition; he paid visits to Ronsard at the Priory of Saint Cosmo (rather than the other way around; see earlier entry for Ronsard info), and called da Vinci his father. Displayed downstairs in Clos Luce, on the wall behind the model of a water-raising device, is the text of da Vinci's 1482 letter to Ludovico Sforza, in which he describes ten of the inventions with which he can furnish an employer. Everything he lists is either a war machine or manipulates water in some way: he describes bridges, siege engines and siege techniques, armored chariots, and the like.
Outside, these dreams of his are realized. The people of Amboise have done a beautiful thing: they have taken their history and made it public, inviting, charming, and free of charge. The da Vinci park, just behind the chateau, contains da Vinci's inventions of the size he intended. I have walked over a turnstile-bridge he designed, and seen children playing on da Vinci's tank, helicopter, treadmill, Archimedean water-screw, and more. I have seen happy tourists transverse the stream in da Vinci's paddleboat (cost: 2 Euros for a boat, which holds up to five; the second good deal I have seen since I have arrived in France). Periodically, one can listen to audio recordings of passages from da Vinci's notebooks, available in one of 4 languages, and performed by excellent voice-actors. There is absolutely nothing crass about the entire park; the landscape without the models would be phenomenal, as would the models without the park. In the da Vinci Park, people can touch, see, hear, and understand intellectual history in a way that is inviting, informative, and genuine.
Oh, yes, and I forgot where the bus was on the way back, and was about 6 minutes late. I had a fantastic conversation with the professor on the way back, about teaching history.
~JD
"Pour nombre de deputes, le drame de Thermidor fut, comme le proces du roi, celui de leur conscience. En condamnant des hommes qui incarnaient la Revolution, ils reniaient une cause qu'ils avaient eux-memes servie" [For numerous delegates, the drama of Thermidor was, like the trial of the king, one of conscience. In condemning the men who embodied the Revoltion, they were repudiating a cause which they had themselves served] (Marc Bouloiseau, La Republique jacobine, p. 248).
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Chateau de Chenonceau
My blog is now fully illustrated, with captioned photographs on Facebook. I'd like to dedicate this post to my friend and housemate Misaki, without whom this feat would have been impossible!
This afternoon, I visited the Chateau de Chenonceau, as well as its accompanying wine cellars. Chenonceau dates from the early 16th century, and is the oldest chateau I have described, so far (although the Chateau de Tours is nearly 500 years older: stay tuned). It was constructed by nouveau riche bourgeois, Thomas Bohier and his wife Katherine Briçonnet, who demolished the preexisting structure, leaving only a tower, which dates from the middle ages. Why did they leave the tower? In order to lend their family and new home an air of respectability that comes from owning a very old building. For the same reason, the couple constructed a chapel; chapels and antiquity both lend dignity to a chateau. Bohier's only claim to fame is his construction of this chateau, the most popular of all in the Loire Valley, and second in France only to Versailles. He was fully aware of this, and he inscribed his ambitions above his mantelpiece; translated into English, he stated that if the chateau were ever finished, he would be remembered. It was, and he is.
Chenonceau is of immense historical interest because of its architecture. It was the first chateau with large gardens: however, it represents only a first step. The two gardens which flank Chenonceau are an ornament to the castle; they represent a separate, detachable element. Gardens at chateaux will only achieve their apogee with Versailles, where the gardens function an ineluctable component of. Secondly, Chenonceau's construction began just as the first gusts of Italian Renaissance architecture rustled through France, and and the chateau magnificently straddles the Medieval and Renaissance eras of building. Chenonceau's most striking feature, on the exterior, is its bridge-like gallery extending out over the River Cher.
Chenonceau is known as the "chateau des dames," or "ladies' castle," on account of the many famous women who made it their home. For instance, one bedroom is called the "room of the five queens," because over time, five different queens used it as their bedroom. However, by far its two most famous occupants of were Diane de Poitiers and Catherine de Medici.
Diane de Poitiers had the distinction of having been the mistress of two consecutive French kings, Francois I and Henri II (she also had a husband). She was the favorite in particular of Henri, who installed her in Chenonceau, which had become royal property. She oversaw the planting of one garden during her stay, which still bears her name; however, when Henri died in a joust, she lost her protector, and was finally subject to her lover's husband, Catherine de Medici. Catherine admired Chenonceau, and so evicted Diane from the premises, exchanging for it a rather minor castle, and planted her own garden at Chenonceau, also still bearing her name. Luckily, Diane's husband was exorbitantly wealthy, and happily built for her a much larger chateau than the one Diane had received from Catherine de Medici. A happy ending for everyone involved, except maybe for poor old Henri, who only received a lance in the eye for his trouble.
Though Chenonceau's interior is still magnificent, it has suffered from centuries of wear and tear. Most obviously, its floors were once richly painted: but passing feet have so worn away the original design, that only in the edges and corners of rooms is any remnant visible of the bold blues and yellows that once decorated the floors.
The "bridge" of Chenonceau was constructed a half-century after the main "body" of the house. Its interior design is Renaissance-inspired neo-classical, contrasting to the very medieval facade. Along the walls are still-newer busts of famous personages: I think that I recognized Louis XIV, and maybe Descartes, but who were the others? I haven't the foggiest idea.
Chenonceau is a masterpiece of composite architecture., and nowhere is this more evident than in the ceiling of the staircase, otherwise an uninspiring place to look. Overhead the foot of the stairs, the style is Italian: symmetrical, geometric, elegant, and classically-inspired. At the landing, the style abruptly becomes very French: vaulted, thick-ribbed, Gothic, pointed; a form deliberately difficult to construct. (The French preferred difficult architecture, appreciating technique relatively more than the Italians.) As one turns 90 degrees to one's left, and mounts the stairs again, the overhanging ceiling reverts to the Italian style. Strange? Yes. Fascinating? Even more so.
Many of the furnishings of Chenonceau, such as the mantelpieces and the bridge interior, are "grotesque." What is "grotesque" art? Art that has been inspired by the observation of the ruins of antique Roman palaces. The Oxford English Dictionary explains the history of this word far better than I can: "The etymological sense of grottesca would be ‘painting appropriate to grottos’. The special sense is commonly explained by the statement that grotte, ‘grottoes’, was the popular name in Rome for the chambers of ancient buildings which had been revealed by excavations, and which contained those mural paintings that were the typical examples of ‘grotesque’... Although this seems to be only a late conjecture, without any actual evidence, it appears to be intrinsically plausible." Now, you may refer to hideous, decadent-looking pieces of furniture as "grotesque," and know that, by your choice of words, you are comparing them to the contents of Calligula's palace.
The most important of Chenonceau's artifacts are its archives, chronicling its day-by-day management and maintenance. These are the true treasures of Chenonceau, which the Revolution would have destroyed, had they not been cleverly hidden by Mme. Dupin, who successfully disguised the chateau's library as a storehouse for lumber. The Revolution wished to destroy all such documents, because they contained noble genealogies. According to Vovelle's Chute de la monarchie, "A gang of armed villagers would show up at the neighboring castle, compel it to hand over its archives, books, records of land-management, secular titles, and feudal possessions, burning everything in a joyous bonfire" (p. 130, my translation). In other words, historians owe a very deep dept to this courageous Mme. Dupin, without whom we would never have such detailed descriptions of daily life in a Renaissance-era chateau.
Nor does the history end in the 18th or 19th centuries. During World War I, the owner of Chenonceau turned his house into a makeshift hospital, where over 2,000 injured French soldiers received medical attention. In World War II, the chateau was poised on the very border between the forces of the Free French and what was officially Occupied France. A group of German soldiers, throughout the war, carefully watched the castle, ready to blow it to smithereens at a moment's notice.
It was an extremely hot bus-ride to the wine-cellars of Chenonceau, and the subterranean tunnels were extremely welcome. The official name of the wine produced by the cellars is Vouvray, a sparkling semi-dry white. The wine cellars feel much like a roomy mine-shaft, and there's a good historical reason for this: the cellars are really the old quarries from which the stone used to build the Loire Valley chateaux in total was extracted. A network of over 12km of Vouvray cellars tangle their way through the Touraine hillside, containing approximately 4 million bottles. That's a lot of wine, and some of it is still riddled manually (although most bottles are riddled automatically, or semi-automatically). The French word for "to riddle" is "remuer," which literally means "to wiggle," as an animal wiggles its limbs.
This weekend, I will be taking a long bus ride to northern France, for more chateaux. I highly recommend that you look at my Facebook photos of Chenonceau, in order to better understand what I have been describing.
~JD
"Dans cette vacance momentanee de l'autorite dont la bourgeoisie sent tout le danger, il y a place pour des hommes forts, et pendant que d'une main elle redige sa Constitution liberale, cette bourgeoisie se trouve des heros pour defendru un nouvel ordre qu'elle sent fragile: les exemples provinciaux ne manquent pas (le maire Lieutaud a Marseille); on en trouve l'expression, a l'echelon national, dans l'exceptionnelle popularite de La Fayette, en cette anee 1790" (Vovelle, Chute de la monarchie, p. 142).
Translation: "In this momentary absence of authority, by which the bourgeoisie felt endangered, there was room for strong men, and, with one hand drafting a liberal Constitution, the bourgeoisie found for itself heroes to defend the new order that it felt was fragile: there is no lack of provincial examples (Lieutad, mayor of Marseille); but one finds the expression of this sentiment, at the national level, in the exceptional popularity of Lafayette, in the year 1790."
This afternoon, I visited the Chateau de Chenonceau, as well as its accompanying wine cellars. Chenonceau dates from the early 16th century, and is the oldest chateau I have described, so far (although the Chateau de Tours is nearly 500 years older: stay tuned). It was constructed by nouveau riche bourgeois, Thomas Bohier and his wife Katherine Briçonnet, who demolished the preexisting structure, leaving only a tower, which dates from the middle ages. Why did they leave the tower? In order to lend their family and new home an air of respectability that comes from owning a very old building. For the same reason, the couple constructed a chapel; chapels and antiquity both lend dignity to a chateau. Bohier's only claim to fame is his construction of this chateau, the most popular of all in the Loire Valley, and second in France only to Versailles. He was fully aware of this, and he inscribed his ambitions above his mantelpiece; translated into English, he stated that if the chateau were ever finished, he would be remembered. It was, and he is.
Chenonceau is of immense historical interest because of its architecture. It was the first chateau with large gardens: however, it represents only a first step. The two gardens which flank Chenonceau are an ornament to the castle; they represent a separate, detachable element. Gardens at chateaux will only achieve their apogee with Versailles, where the gardens function an ineluctable component of. Secondly, Chenonceau's construction began just as the first gusts of Italian Renaissance architecture rustled through France, and and the chateau magnificently straddles the Medieval and Renaissance eras of building. Chenonceau's most striking feature, on the exterior, is its bridge-like gallery extending out over the River Cher.
Chenonceau is known as the "chateau des dames," or "ladies' castle," on account of the many famous women who made it their home. For instance, one bedroom is called the "room of the five queens," because over time, five different queens used it as their bedroom. However, by far its two most famous occupants of were Diane de Poitiers and Catherine de Medici.
Diane de Poitiers had the distinction of having been the mistress of two consecutive French kings, Francois I and Henri II (she also had a husband). She was the favorite in particular of Henri, who installed her in Chenonceau, which had become royal property. She oversaw the planting of one garden during her stay, which still bears her name; however, when Henri died in a joust, she lost her protector, and was finally subject to her lover's husband, Catherine de Medici. Catherine admired Chenonceau, and so evicted Diane from the premises, exchanging for it a rather minor castle, and planted her own garden at Chenonceau, also still bearing her name. Luckily, Diane's husband was exorbitantly wealthy, and happily built for her a much larger chateau than the one Diane had received from Catherine de Medici. A happy ending for everyone involved, except maybe for poor old Henri, who only received a lance in the eye for his trouble.
Though Chenonceau's interior is still magnificent, it has suffered from centuries of wear and tear. Most obviously, its floors were once richly painted: but passing feet have so worn away the original design, that only in the edges and corners of rooms is any remnant visible of the bold blues and yellows that once decorated the floors.
The "bridge" of Chenonceau was constructed a half-century after the main "body" of the house. Its interior design is Renaissance-inspired neo-classical, contrasting to the very medieval facade. Along the walls are still-newer busts of famous personages: I think that I recognized Louis XIV, and maybe Descartes, but who were the others? I haven't the foggiest idea.
Chenonceau is a masterpiece of composite architecture., and nowhere is this more evident than in the ceiling of the staircase, otherwise an uninspiring place to look. Overhead the foot of the stairs, the style is Italian: symmetrical, geometric, elegant, and classically-inspired. At the landing, the style abruptly becomes very French: vaulted, thick-ribbed, Gothic, pointed; a form deliberately difficult to construct. (The French preferred difficult architecture, appreciating technique relatively more than the Italians.) As one turns 90 degrees to one's left, and mounts the stairs again, the overhanging ceiling reverts to the Italian style. Strange? Yes. Fascinating? Even more so.
Many of the furnishings of Chenonceau, such as the mantelpieces and the bridge interior, are "grotesque." What is "grotesque" art? Art that has been inspired by the observation of the ruins of antique Roman palaces. The Oxford English Dictionary explains the history of this word far better than I can: "The etymological sense of grottesca would be ‘painting appropriate to grottos’. The special sense is commonly explained by the statement that grotte, ‘grottoes’, was the popular name in Rome for the chambers of ancient buildings which had been revealed by excavations, and which contained those mural paintings that were the typical examples of ‘grotesque’... Although this seems to be only a late conjecture, without any actual evidence, it appears to be intrinsically plausible." Now, you may refer to hideous, decadent-looking pieces of furniture as "grotesque," and know that, by your choice of words, you are comparing them to the contents of Calligula's palace.
The most important of Chenonceau's artifacts are its archives, chronicling its day-by-day management and maintenance. These are the true treasures of Chenonceau, which the Revolution would have destroyed, had they not been cleverly hidden by Mme. Dupin, who successfully disguised the chateau's library as a storehouse for lumber. The Revolution wished to destroy all such documents, because they contained noble genealogies. According to Vovelle's Chute de la monarchie, "A gang of armed villagers would show up at the neighboring castle, compel it to hand over its archives, books, records of land-management, secular titles, and feudal possessions, burning everything in a joyous bonfire" (p. 130, my translation). In other words, historians owe a very deep dept to this courageous Mme. Dupin, without whom we would never have such detailed descriptions of daily life in a Renaissance-era chateau.
Nor does the history end in the 18th or 19th centuries. During World War I, the owner of Chenonceau turned his house into a makeshift hospital, where over 2,000 injured French soldiers received medical attention. In World War II, the chateau was poised on the very border between the forces of the Free French and what was officially Occupied France. A group of German soldiers, throughout the war, carefully watched the castle, ready to blow it to smithereens at a moment's notice.
It was an extremely hot bus-ride to the wine-cellars of Chenonceau, and the subterranean tunnels were extremely welcome. The official name of the wine produced by the cellars is Vouvray, a sparkling semi-dry white. The wine cellars feel much like a roomy mine-shaft, and there's a good historical reason for this: the cellars are really the old quarries from which the stone used to build the Loire Valley chateaux in total was extracted. A network of over 12km of Vouvray cellars tangle their way through the Touraine hillside, containing approximately 4 million bottles. That's a lot of wine, and some of it is still riddled manually (although most bottles are riddled automatically, or semi-automatically). The French word for "to riddle" is "remuer," which literally means "to wiggle," as an animal wiggles its limbs.
This weekend, I will be taking a long bus ride to northern France, for more chateaux. I highly recommend that you look at my Facebook photos of Chenonceau, in order to better understand what I have been describing.
~JD
"Dans cette vacance momentanee de l'autorite dont la bourgeoisie sent tout le danger, il y a place pour des hommes forts, et pendant que d'une main elle redige sa Constitution liberale, cette bourgeoisie se trouve des heros pour defendru un nouvel ordre qu'elle sent fragile: les exemples provinciaux ne manquent pas (le maire Lieutaud a Marseille); on en trouve l'expression, a l'echelon national, dans l'exceptionnelle popularite de La Fayette, en cette anee 1790" (Vovelle, Chute de la monarchie, p. 142).
Translation: "In this momentary absence of authority, by which the bourgeoisie felt endangered, there was room for strong men, and, with one hand drafting a liberal Constitution, the bourgeoisie found for itself heroes to defend the new order that it felt was fragile: there is no lack of provincial examples (Lieutad, mayor of Marseille); but one finds the expression of this sentiment, at the national level, in the exceptional popularity of Lafayette, in the year 1790."
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