An interview on Radio 4 this morning, with Antony Gormley, reminds me that Kettle’s Yard in Cambridge is about to re-open after being closed for ‘refurbishment’.
 
I confess I am always a little apprehensive about these programmes of refurbishment in general and this exercise has caused me not a little concern, because the Kettle’s Yard I remember was not an art gallery. It was a home with some great art.
 
For a time, back in the late sixties, I would walk past Kettle’s Yard a couple of times a day, on a journey between my rooms in college and the digs of a girlfriend in Castle Street. In those days, there was no signage to invite one inside. It was all word of mouth. And it was from a friend that I heard that Jim Ede and his wife Helen would hold open house most afternoons, offering tea and guided tours to those who were lucky enough to knock on the door at the appropriate time.
 
On a couple of occasions, I was one of those.
 
I wasn’t totally visually illiterate then, but the art I liked was almost exclusively figurative. Paintings that told a story. Narrative art if you like.
 
The work that I saw on my first visit was revelatory, despite - or more probably because of - the fact that I was stoned. Very stoned. I doubt that I would have ventured to knock had I not been.
 
Helen Ede – it was just Helen on that day - must have realized this, but I was treated with courtesy and respect, given tea and shown round the collection. I was told stories of Ben Nicholson, David Jones, Miro. I saw sculptures by Henri Gaudier-Brzeska, Henry Moore and Barbara Hepworth.
 
But I also saw odd stones and pebbles and bits of coloured glass and weathered wood.
 
In my normal, unintoxicated, hard-line rationalist state, I would have paid little heed to these found objects. But on that day, they were wonderful. Not for what they were, but for how they appeared. How they balanced and complemented the art, how the domesticity of the rooms seemed to be the ideal environment for their display.
 
There was no shop, no café. There were no little typewritten notes telling us what to think. Just a couple welcoming you to their house and sharing their love of art.
 
I felt completely at home.
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: Yesterday was Shostakovich String Quartets, all of them, from the first to the fifteenth. Today, it’s studio outtakes from Dylan’s Desire sessions. As ever, I am unable to understand Bob's decisions to take one cut and abandon others. 

It took me a while to get Rothko.
 
I have never seen his early, mythic, figurative work outside the pages of catalogues and art coffee table books. The Rothko I and thousands of others ‘know’ are those extraordinarily massive slabs of darkness, through which float almost untraceable hues of tone, texture and colour, the Late Series.
 
As he intended, I was overwhelmed, in awe, when I walked into the Tate a decade ago. And I thought of Dylan ten years earlier acknowledging that “It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there”.
 
It was clear that, for Rothko, it had already got there. He was re-working over and over again this sense of imminent tragedy, which we may infer or deduce, was to end in his future suicide.
 
I have known three suicides: a writer, a painter, a scientist. Each was, in their own way, brilliant: clever, intelligent, funny even. I cannot know, no-one can know, what despair drove them to believe that they were better off dead.

I have also known many more people left behind by the suicide of someone close to them; left behind with the guilt that they should have seen it coming, that they somehow failed their lover or friend. Suicide is not painless.
 
Rothko spoke often of suicide apparently, particularly that of Jackson Pollock – suicide by alcohol and a car crash. He told his assistant that “if I choose to commit suicide, everyone will be sure of it. There will be no doubts …”.
 
There wasn’t. He over-dosed on anti-depressants. And slashed his wrists with a razor blade.
 
This was no cry for help. This was no psychosis. This was not even a philosophical desire to die and take control over a life which was failing physically and intellectually.

​I don't get it.
 
Half an hour ago, I had no intention of writing this or anything like it. But first thing this morning, I found myself staring at a Rothko print on our kitchen wall as I waited for the coffee machine to fire up. It is not one of the final pieces. In this one, it is not dark yet, but it’s getting there. I have looked at this many, many times but today, as I sipped my coffee, I was reminded of one of those quotes which I collect in my commonplace book.
 
It’s from Rothko. And it is this:
 
“There is only one thing I fear in life, my friend: One day, the black will swallow the red.’

​Now that I understand.
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: A family illness has caused the cancellation of the Atrium String Quartet’s appearance in Leamington a week tonight. Their place is being taken by the Brodsky who will perform the Shostakovich #12 which was to be the centrepiece of the Atrium gig. I was looking forward immensely to seeing the Atrium again, but listening now to #7 is more than fine.

A brief addendum: Back in 2010, when this blog was conceived, I split the posts into Lettres d'Uzès (my hommage to Racine) for those written in France and, thus, Leamington Letters for those written in the UK. Lifestyle changes make this distinction inappropriate, so all posts will now come under the (highly appropriate) Not Dark Yet banner. Numbering of the posts henceforth is as if both were in fact one. The blog itself will now be titled MS for reasons which should be self-evident. The new profile picture was photo-shopped by my late great friend Bill Keningale for my 50th birthday. Er, that's it.

Jill and I decided to take a break from what was becoming an obsession with endless news updates to enjoy some of the things that Europe has to offer. We needed an away day without wi-fi and iphone notifications pinging into our consciousness. So we drove south.

We started with Chagall and the presentation of his works in a multimedia exhibition held underground in an ancient (since Roman times) cave-like quarry. This is Les Carrières des Lumières at Les Beaux, near St Rémy de Provence.
 
Chagall: Midsummer Night’s Dreams is a spectacular creation. All the famous masterpieces have been digitized and projected onto the columns, walls and the floor of the quarry. Initially, the experience is disorientating, even disturbing; within moments, however, one eyes and ears adjust: one is inundated with colour, close-ups and creativity.

Every phase of Chagall's life and work is here in one form or another: 100 projectors showing his works from the love paintings and landscapes to the stained glass windows which brought Jill to tears when seeing them for the first time a decade or so ago.

Accompanying the imagery is an eclectic but sympa soundtrack, put together by a friend of Chagall, Mikhaïl Rudy. Through 27 speakers, it moves from circus music to grand opera to Janis Joplin and back again.
 
We were entranced and enchanted; in awe and in thrall. We were tempted to remain for a second run. But we had to return to St Quentin-la-Poterie because, that evening, Stéphane Reynaud was opening his new restaurant, La Cuisine de Boucher, in St Quentin and we had coveted tickets to the launch party.

​Stéphane’s new venture is in a large and imposing building overlooking the market square. It has been empty and à vendre for many years, and as each summer passed without a new owner, we speculated that its refurbishment would become even more difficult and even more expensive. I suspect it was both. But miracles have been achieved and the party did it justice, with the great and the good of St Quentinoise society – including the Mayor and the council – turning out for fine wine and delicious canapés.
 
It was a great day, a day during which we almost forgot the strife back in the UK and our own concerns and misgivings over the implications for us and our business, and for the future of our children and grandchildren.
 
Almost, but not quite.
 
Turning one’s back on Europe is not something for which we voted and not something that should be done frivolously, although that is what has happened. let's be clear: it should not have been done at all. But it has and somehow we must live with it.

How? No idea. But when I've worked it out, I will let you know ...
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: I am continuing my exploration of Indie Pop with the carefully nuanced and tuneful work of Ultimate Painting, a UK band which owes much to the Velvets, and to which I was introduced by a show in New York recorded by the exemplary nyctaper.

Arles makes few concessions to the tourist.

Its 2000 year history embraces the Phoenicians, the Romans, the Jews, the Gypsy Kings and, of course, Vincent van Gogh, who lived here between February 1888 to July 1890. But although there is a defined tourist area, centred on the Forum, and although it attracts thousands of visitors every year, it remains defiantly a communist town, with a working class ethos. There is nothing pretty or twee here; Arles is as gritty and uncompromising as the dust which the Mistral blows around its streets and squares.

The excuse for our most recent visit was the new Fondation Vincent van Gogh, in which some 50 or so drawings and prints are on display in a beautiful hybrid building – half 15th century and half 21st century – located in a small street between the forum and the amphitheatre.

It is a refreshing exhibition, because none of the famous, iconic paintings are here – a fact which provoked an American family buying tickets ahead of us to cancel their visit (“You’re telling me you have no originals at all?”). Instead, we are encouraged to focus on his draughtsmanship, his printmaking and his subject matter. Appropriately for a resident of a communist town, van Gogh’s early ambition was to create prints which could be bought at an affordable price by the working class, showing activities inspired by their working lives. In Arles, he cut and trimmed reeds to make pens which which he drew peasants, artisans and labourers at work and at play. Many are poignant; all are dignified and none more so than the gravediggers in Cemetery in the Rain.

Because the work is unfamiliar, at least to me, it commanded more time and attention than we expected. So much so that by the time we passed through the exit, it was time for lunch. Serendipitously, the same street which hosts the Fondation, also boasts a restaurant which is one of our favourites.

At Le Galoubet, one dines underneath the vines on a beautiful terrace and eats from a small but perfectly formed carte. On the day in question, it featured œuf mollet on a bed of ratatouille to start and suprême of pintadeau to follow. Perfect. And the demi pichet of red to accompany the meal was from Estézargues, wine I first drank in Terroirs in King William IV Street in London. We decided quickly that this would be our new house red and left Arles, raced down the autoroute and arrived in Estézargues (midway between St Quentin la Poterie and Avignon) within the hour. Another hour later, our degustation came to an end and we were cruising home with a boot full of sublime CdR – including an unfiltered Cinsault which I commend to all you fans of natural wines.

With the Mistral keeping the clouds at bay, we spent the evening in the company of this wine, sitting in the courtyard and looking up occasionally to admire our very own Starry Night.

A good day. Vin and Vincent is a great combination.


Today from the everysmith vaults: another great combination, thanks to Wolfgang. Jim Hall and Tal Farlow in Central Park back in 1973. Only a short set but every bar is exquisite.

PS. For our American friends, I should point out that there is an 'original' in the Fondation. Here it is - A Pile of French Novels.

It is, of course,  “a once-in-a-lifetime exhibition” – aren’t they all? – but it left us distinctly underwhelmed.

Jill and I had braved the tube strike to schlep to London. Our objective was the Tate Modern and the new show of Matisse’s cut-outs which he produced after his illness, sitting in his wheelchair and directing his young assistants as to placement and colour

There are 130 of them in the Level 2 gallery at the Tate Modern, and they have provoked extraordinary reviews and even more extraordinary praise. “For many people” said Nicholas Serota, “the Cut-Outs will be the most evocative and beautiful show that London has seen.”

Well, it isn’t. And, as my English teacher remonstrated with me, “evocative of what?”

Granted, the work is attractive and decorative. But that isn’t enough. I can get that anywhere at any time.

Granted, there is some interest in seeing the originals, discovering those little bits of paper that have been pasted over a mistake or on a whim. They add the texture that is missing from the reproductions.

And granted, the colours are vibrant and vivid and slightly vulgar in their flat obviousness. Significantly, there are no organic colours here; they are all synthetic, lacking in depth and naturalness.

But those familiar images are all here – the Dancers, Jazz, the Blue Nudes, Oceana and the chapel at Vence.

One can imagine their Provençal provenance: slight strips of colour and form hanging from a drawing pin axis on the wall and fluttering in the breezes from an open window. Matisse spoke of the way in which the easel became redundant and his work released from the constraints of a frame. He regarded them as a kind of wallpaper, even if he subsequently claimed that they constituted "my real self: free, liberated.”

Perhaps.

But in the exhibition they are framed and they are constrained. They have borders and edges. And as such they are merely conventional graphics; even - perhaps especially - those iconic images with which we are all so familiar, which one can buy as a poster and which hang in a million bed-sits. I mean the Blue Nudes, the abstracted Snail and Icarus (above).

So if the exhibition is intended as evidence that, in old age, “he did not merely create a new style, he created a new medium”, it fails.

More importantly, it fails to hold the attention. It’s more of the same from room to room. 

I think the issue – my issue – with these works is that they are … well, not paintings. What we saw was a great painter not painting. Not print-making either, although these work so much more immediately as reproductions.

I really wanted to be be impressed, to relish the sensual colours and shapes. But I wasn’t. I really wanted to love the artist that my wife loves above (almost) all others. But I couldn't. And I really wanted to learn about how complexity operates in simplicity. But I didn't.

All I can say is that they were, mostly, pleasing to the eye.

But not as pretty as a picture.

Today from the everysmith vaults: Free flowing jazz and rock improvisation from the Mahavishnu Orchestra. Santana and McLaughlin in a series of gigs from Concert Vault: each manifesting elegance and lyricism and weirdness. After Coltrane, this is where to go.

 

We chose to follow the advice of Elizabeth David: an omelette and a glass of wine. I was in the French bistro Angelus, with Rick Gekoski, having an all-too-infrequent and, on this occasion, all-too-brief lunch. We were talking books, because Rick is a Booker Prize judge, rare-book dealer and writer, and I would like to be any or all of those.

At some point, Rick mentioned that he had enjoyed a particular blog of mine, which concerned a restaurant which we had both frequented many years ago. And digging it up from the archives on the train home, I noted that I had announced my plan to blog about Rick's last book, Lost, Stolen or Shredded, as soon as I had given it due consideration. By which I meant as soon as I had read it again, because one reads Rick firstly for entertainment and secondly for education and elucidation. Or I do.

I realised that I have never honoured that promise. So I will do so now, because it is almost a year since publication and Rick is already well-advanced on his next book. And because I realised this weekend that a couple of works were missing from my shelves. And yes, I did read the book a second time.

The sub-title of Lost, Stolen or Shredded is Stories of Missing Works of Art and Literature. This is not, I suspect, merely to attract the attention of internet search engines, but because each chapter is, in fact, a great story told by a great story-teller, with a wonderful turn of phrase.

Consider the opening sentences of the foreword: “He collected absences. For him they were more intense, vibrant and real than the presences that they shadowed.” I remember reading this to Jill on the train back from the launch party, and remarking that it was worthy of the subject, who is, of course, Franz Kafka, and the  story concerns his visit to the Louvre to gaze not upon the Mona Lisa, but at the space that the painting had occupied before being stolen.

“He collected absences.” There is no way one is not going to read on after that. And so one does, learning about the stolen Mona Lisa, the destroyed Churchill portrait by Sutherland, the burned manuscripts of Byron and Larkin's diaries and Joyce's juvenilia, Et Tu, Healey, and the bejewelled copy of the Rubaiyat which went down on the Titanic. All are written as he talks - with eloquence and fluency and wry humour. 

I doubt whether the transformation from Radio 4 talks to book required too much editing. In both forms, he tells stories, each of which addresses the general (the art or literature and its place in the world) and the particular (Rick's individual relationship with it).

Absence, caused by loss, theft, shredding or sinking, is the theme. Does the absence of a poem, a diary, a painting leave the world a worse place? Rick mentions his inability to look at the work of Eric Gill without "a shudder of remembrance" of Gill's activities with children. I share that revulsion. I also care little about the destruction of Larkin's diaries, for example, and think that everything else the man wrote is diminished by the fact that those diaries were once written and did exist, that they were part of the 'complete works' of Larkin and that one's response to a Larkin poem now is informed by the knowledge of those diaries and their contents.

Today of course those diaries could probably have been erased not by the ceremony of ritual burning, but by the simple click of the delete button. And Rick's current preoccupations include the life and death of the book itself. Like me, he reads primarily on the Kindle, buying the real thing only for writers and volumes of particular importance. (I bought an actual copy of the reissue of Keywords by Raymond Williams this morning, the first such purchase for some months, probably since Lost, Stolen or Shredded, come to think of it.)

But for Rick, as a publisher of beautiful books and a dealer in rare ones, the convenience of the Kindle medium must be also a source of regret. We do not own an iBook or a Kindle book; we merely have the right to read it. (Nor do we own an iTune: Bruce Willis is currently engaged in a law suit to enable him to leave his iTunes music to his children.)

This is what we have lost, or had stolen from us. Our sense of direct, proprietary involvement with our books and our music. Our ownership, on a personal level, with both the artefact and the intellectual content.

I know this is not on the same scale as the loss of the library in the Villa of the Papyri in Herculaneum, another of Rick's stories.

But is for me. As well as my missing first edition of Keywords, inscribed to me by Raymond Williams, I discovered yesterday that my cassettes of Dylan and the Dead rehearsing in San Rafael in 1987 are also gone, baby, gone.

To paraphrase Stalin, which I do seldom, the loss of thousands of scrolls in Herculaneum is a statistic. The loss of that book, and those tapes, is a tragedy.

Today from the everysmith vaults: Miles Davis, opening for the Dead at Fillmore West in April 1970. Here's Phil Lesh in his autobiography, Searching for the Sound, “As I listened, leaning over the amps with my jaw hanging agape, trying to comprehend the forces that Miles was unleashing on stage, I was thinking, 'What's the use. How can we possibly play after this? We should just go home and try to digest this unbelievable shit.”

Like most cricket-loving Englishmen, I have an ambivalent relationship with Australia and Australians, especially at a time like this, when there is a Test series going on.

Back in the 60s, we had an invasion of Australian intellect and intellectuals. Richard Neville, editor of Oz, Clive James and the incomparable Germaine Greer, were crucial to the movement at the time, and their energy, smartness and engagement, were important - at least to me - in facing up to one or two bourgeois tendencies that I had inherited from my public school.

These days, I love the Australian earthiness, their drinking, their love of sport and what Dame Edna famously referred to as their “total lack of cultural distractions”.

So, on our recent visit to London for Bob's return to the Royal Albert Hall, Jill and I found a couple of hours to see the Australia show at the Royal Academy.

It was a revelation.

Not, of course, for the colonial, imperialist, landscapes of the English painters, although some of the painting is more than competent and the subject matter fascinating.

The wondrousness of the show was all about the exquisite, obsessive, detailed and scale of the work of the native Australians.

Aboriginal art is both style and substance.

The style is decorative, reminding me of Arabian, Iranian, Turkish carpets, in which religious icons are combined with images of heritage, to create something which is greater and more universal than either.

Some contemporary Australians, of European heritage, have attempted to continue this tradition, and they have failed quite spectacularly.

Others, notably Sidney Nolan, have drawn on the landscape to create something as modern and as distinctively Australian as Wolf Blass Shiraz. Some are particularly successful in capturing the banality of Australia in the 50s, against which the three mentioned above rebelled and from which they escaped: Jeffery Smart, in particular, completely new to me, deserves a wider audience.

But, for the Europeans, the native technique is merely and only that, a technique. They seem to me to fail to understand that the medium is as much the message as ... well, the message. This is also the case in the work of the so-called Australian impressionists. It's ok, but it’s not quite there, is it? It may be Australian, but it's not impressionist. And when it is impressionist, it's not Australian.

There is no doubt, however, that it was an afternoon exceptionally well-spent, and well worth the annual cost of our Friends of the RA cards. 

With the exception of a load of where-the=hell-do-we-put-this? stuff in the final couple of rooms, it was moving, engaging, challenging and stimulating. We loved it.

And we also loved the new Keeper's House bar and restaurant. Under the aegis of Oliver Peyton and, during the day, open exclusively to Academicians and Friends, it is our very own club in Piccadilly. The Wolseley is just across the road, but, for once, we didn't visit. No need. The Keeper's House will do me very well indeed when I revisit the RA to see the Daumier on Paris exhibition in the new year.

So that's what we did before the Bob concert. Read the preceding blog for a review of the concert itself. My judgement may not be what you expect.

Meanwhile, because this was all happening the day before Thanksgiving, and I needed to be back in Leamington for Michelle's celebrations, I mused on the train about all the things for which I can give thanks this year.

For me, that means a second grandson, a first step-grandson, and the marriage of my second daughter Cassidy to a man I admire and respect and who is good for her.

And then, there was the World Series.

That's a good year by any standards.

Today from the everysmith vault: Wooden Ships from October 1991. Paul Kantner returns to his folk roots in the back room of McCabe's guitar shop in Santa Monica.It was just after the death of Bill Graham, and Paul recounts a conversation he had had earlier with Jerry. Very moving

Sunday morning in St Quentin la Poterie. The hygienically pungent smell of disinfectant hovers in the streets. The tabac is busy with purchasers of extra cartons of cigarettes. Carrefour is the scene of manic buying, with the owners of Café de France and Le Cuisine du Boucher at the front of the two check-outs, loading up dozens of baguettes, salads and 5 litre bottles of Coke. In the Bar du Marché, opinion seems divided as to whether a simple café is sufficient to kick-start the day or whether to begin as one intends to continue with a beer or pastis.

Nous sommes en fête.

The fête votive started on Thursday evening and will continue unabated until the early hours of Tuesday morning. The bulls are run each evening. There are gigs every lunchtime, every evening and every night, often several competing against each other for an audience and decibel rating. 

The restaurants, even 30 Degrees Sud, put on a special menu du fête, which means that, last evening, we celebrated Nicole’s 50th birthday with moules frites rather than foie gras, and on Friday evening we snook out of the village to eat at Le Comptoir du 7 in Uzès with Michelle and James, finishing off with a final pichet in Le Bistrot du Duché as we waited for the late arrival of Cody.

But most of the time, unlike some, we are more than happy to stay in the village and soak it all up - literally so on occasion.

The fête is the commune-goes-mad. And it’s brilliant, especially if one can – as we can – dip in and out: a drink here, a gig there, a bull run here and a grand bal there. 

But of course, we are pretty much always en fête, or at least on holiday. We have no work commitments. We can, as we did earlier this week, just take off on a whim and head for Aix-en-Provence to visit the second half of Le Grand Atelier du Midi exhibition at the Musée Granet.

It was … better? perhaps not, but certainly more interesting, than the Marseille show. For a start, there are more Matisses and Cézannes, and fewer fillers from the second division. The quality of the work is more consistent and although it was a great deal busier than the Palais Longchamps in Marseille, it was a more enjoyable and more rewarding experience.

But it wasn’t the highlight of the week or even of the day. That was reserved for our visit to Cézanne’s studio, which he built just north of the cathedral in what was then an undeveloped landscape. Today, one walks up the hill past blocks of apartments and retirement homes to find the gate to this splendidly unrestored studio, with its huge north-facing window, and the collection of artifacts owned and painted by Cézanne.

To see the ingredients of his famous still life paintings, to see his suit, his stove, his pots and pans, his chair and table, was quite wondrous, and almost made me forget that our chosen restaurant had run out of the chef’s special rognons de veau by the time we sat down to eat. (Don't worry, the tartare was gorgeous.)

An excellent day, then. Followed the next morning by the arrival of chums from the UK, and the fête. Followed by Nicole's birthday. Followed by more of the fête.

On our return to the UK, which is imminent, it is the memory of these days, this light, these occasions, these happenings, which will help us through the winter.


Today from the everysmith vault: Paul Kanter, David Freiberg, Kathy Richardson aka Jefferson Starship playing in The Assembly, Leamington Spa back in 2009. Nearly four years ago now. A great gig - and this tape confirms that it was as good as I thought at the time.

It has been suggested recently that I am, in these blogs, thinking of myself as a critic. I am not.

I am, on occasion, critical - of a wine, a book, a painting, a piece of music, a restaurant, a ball player. But that is not the same thing at all. The role of the critic is to be, not negative, but positive: to evaluate, to provide deep context, to establish relationships, to elucidate and enhance. In this sense, I suppose that from time to time I write within a critical tradition, but that is not my intention.

This is a blog, not an academic treatise. I allow myself half an hour and plus-or-minus 500 words for each post. The prompts are my reading and listening, my eating and drinking, my obsessions, my social activities. But as some of my excellent correspondents have pointed out, there is a theme developing from these disparate activities, of which – to be honest – I was not consciously aware.

This theme, it would appear, is the appreciation of all activities as a totality, as part of ‘life’ – a word which Leavis substituted for tradition and continuity. 

My subjects, whether they be a new Dylan album, a fine claret, an exhibition or a baseball game, are part of life and contribute to the fundamental ‘vitality’ which is ‘crucial’ to developing an individual ‘meaning of life’, the making of valid choices not through evasion but single-minded commitment.

If I had to categorise what a friend flatteringly characterised as ‘these essays’, I would use the word explorations, which is itself an important Leavis word, and as he said in another context, ‘all important words are dangerous’.

In this case, the danger comes from imposing an importance on my observations which they are incapable of bearing. And often, I confess, they are gut reactions rather than considered judgements.

In the tutored tastings at the Foire aux Vins, for example, I hated the sweetness of the whites, the oakiness of the reds. The maligned wine critics of my previous blog could doubtless explain and maybe even justify. For me, it is simply not to my taste.

Does this mean, therefore, that when you read this blog, you are merely the recipients of some undigested prejudices?

I promise you, you are not. Because more often than not, I start only with a topic. Over the course of the 500 words, I develop my approach and attitude and finally a judgement, a valuation. 

So in the average blog what you are reading is the record of a process of internal debate and argument, backed by Wordsworthian spots of time, structured in the form of  Judt’s Memory Chalet, supported by quotes from better writers, and concluding with … well, a sort of conclusion.

Bit like this one, really.

Today from the everysmith vault: Yesterday, of course, was the wonderful music of the test match commentary. Today, it’s the New Riders of the Purple Sage from July 1971. A 10 minute version of Dirty Business, with Jerry on pedal steel, is the highlight.

Marseille is tout feu, tout flamme about its independence, internationalism and sense of identity; its architecture, art and artisans; its radical past and its cultural present, its freedom-loving life and life-style.

After our first visit this week, so are we.

Marseille is the oldest city in France. It’s the second city of France. And it’s the home of pastis and bouillabaisse. It elected the first socialist maire in France in 1890. It was a refuge for Jews and a centre of resistance against the Nazis in the war. 

Oh, and it is also, in 2013, the European capital of culture.

It is, in fact, a méli-mélo of stereotypes. So Jill and I thought we’d check it out, using as our excuse and opportunity, the exhibition at the Musée des Beaux Arts, part of the Grand Atelier du Midi show, which focuses on works of artists from Van Gogh to Bonnard.

We took the TGV from Avignon, paused briefly in Aix-en-Provence, and arrived in Marseille in plenty of time for our pre-booked slot at the gallery. So much time, in fact, that we had checked in to our hotel, drank a half bottle of chilled rosé, eaten a small plate of charcuterie and courgettes, walked to the Palais Longchamps and enjoyed (most of) the paintings, even before our allocated time was scheduled to begin.

For the record, loved the Van Goghs, the Renoirs (always associated him exclusively with Paris), the Duffys, the Picasso, the Matisses, the Bacon, and some of the Bonnards;  loathed the Manguins, the Marquets and the Massons;  quite enjoyed the Paul Signac.

So by half three in the afternoon, we were free to explore Marseille. And we made a startling discovery: le vrai Grand Atelier du Midi is not the gallery and its contents, but the city of Marseille itself.

Like everyone, we headed first to the Vieux Port by jumping on a tram which took us silently and smoothly down the boulevard to the sea, where we were greeted by l’Ombrière, Norman Foster’s wonderfully simple, stylish and sleek sun shade. 

It’s both use and ornament (as my grandmother used to say): a shady events pavilion, a beautiful structure, and a place for reflection - literally and figuratively. 

Two views are better than one. 

But there was another view which was already haunting us and it is ubiquitous wherever one walks. It is Notre dame de la Garde, which looks down on the city, and is regarded as a guardian and protector of the city. It's known by the Marseillaise as la bonne mère for this reason.

We took the advice of the guide-book and, rather than attempt the walk, squeezed ourselves aboard a tourist train, which took us along the Corniche (longest in the world apparently), gave us half an hour to admire the neo-Byzantine basilica and crypt, and delivered us back to the plethora of restaurants and bars which line the Vieux Port.

But we weren't quite ready for a drink yet. We wanted to plan the next day, ensuring that we could make the most of our visit.

So we walked through Le Panier, the oldest part, where The French Connection was filmed, where the Jews hid, where the communists and resistance were based, and where the Nazis - together with a huge contingent of French police from Paris - evacuated 30,000 people, sent 2000 of them to concentration camps and dynamited 1500 houses. All in a single day in January 1943.

We returned the following morning, walking through the tiny streets which remain, finding the poignant tributes to those who had died or disappeared, mourning the way in which this area is becoming embourgeoisified. There is even a brand new InterContinental Hotel here now. But enough remains to remind us of the feisty, Bohemian, freedom-loving community which had to be destroyed by the Nazis and the Vichy government.

At the far side of Le Panier is the Fort St Jean. This, and the Fort St Nicolas, were built by French kings not so much to protect the city as to dominate it and ensure that its people knew their place.

Today, the Fort St Jean is linked by an elegant walkway across the sea to a wonderful new structure, designed and built as part of the Capital of Culture celebrations.

This is the Museum of Civilisations in Europe and the Mediterranean, or MuCEM, and it is beautiful. It links the land with the sea and it links France with North Africa. It captures the essence of Marseille: its trading, its Phoenician origins, its role as an entry point and a conduit for other cultures.

It is a beautifully designed atelier of Marseille's history, heritage, myth and contemporary life.

But the grand atelier is not MuCEM. Nor is it the Musée at Palais Longchamps. 

It is Marseille itself: the city and its people.

* You wouldn't expect me to write about a city without a reference to food. So:
Where to eat: La Part des Anges, a bar à vin on rue Sainte, with 300 different wines and no wine list. Tell the waiters what you like and what you are going to eat, and they will bring you a glass of something wondrous - or maybe two or three or more. Brilliant place. Love it. 
Where not to eat: Pretty much anywhere in the tourist bit of the Vieux Port, but especially not at La Cuisine au Beurre.

Today's listening: Coupo Santo, the national anthem of Provence, which we heard sung at the end of a communal dinner in an adjoining village on Friday evening. A beautiful song, rendered tout feu, tout flamme, by many of those present.