Celebrity quest, the sacred feminine and food news

More from my recent trip to Provence, focusing on Cannes.
 
Celeb culture

Lizzy the Lesbian Lobster, who now travels with me, likes LGBT history and during our recent trip to Southern France she was keen to spot a few monuments to queer or possibly queer celebrities. Like the home (now a hotel) of American writer F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda at Juan-les-Pins in the mid-1920s. I regard Fitzgerald as a very fine writer and I'm just about to start his novel Tender Is the Night. 

He wasn't necessarily bi but I'd call him 'sexually anxious', in much the same way that he was anxious about his social status in the Jazz Age that he describes so well. Some have read hints of his being homosexual in his writing, others merely that he was desperate not to be perceived as gay or bi or less than masculine. It doesn't matter to me; what is upsetting is that he should have had to live in a society where he could end up so preoccupied with how people saw his sexuality and how he could fear that he was in so may ways an outsider. A salute from Lizzy, therefore, for outsiders who struggle, here at the former Fitzgerald home.

And if the Jazz Age interests you, how about this amazing curvaceous villa on the Cap d'Antibes, about a mile from the Fitzgeralds', called Villa Aujourd'hui (Wiki article here).

Aujourd'hui is the French for Today, which was the name of the first owner's other home in Palm Beach. She sold it to Jack Warner of Warner Bros who entertained all sorts of Hollywood stars there. You can see over the bay to Cannes from this house and that's where we find much of today's Hollywood aristocracy hanging out at the film festival. Their handprints are outside the tourist office. Jodie Foster gets the Lizzy the Lobster LGBT award.

Cannes is not really my sort of place. Too much ostentatious wealth, designer shops and celeb culture. But I did appreciate the innumerable blue chairs that the public can arrange at will on the three mile long leafy promenade.

The famous Carlton Hotel, below:

 

Having just visited Grasse, the French perfume capital, I couldn't help being reminded of the famous 1990 advertisement for Chanel's L'Égoïste which was set in a mock-up of it (L'Égoïste ad). 

But one really great discovery in Cannes that I recommend is the Malmaison Contemporary Art Centre on the promenade. As I wandered past, I was in two minds about going in to see the current exhibition, but the work of Carole Benzaken was actually pretty nice in an excellent display space and, best of all, there is a pleasant rooftop bar, the Café Olympe, with a terrace that looks out over the promenade and the beach to the Cap d'Antibes and the Lérins islands. It's worth paying the low entry fee of €6.50 just to go to the café even if you don't look at the art.

Away from the luxury stuff, the old town of Cannes is like many along this coast, a steep hilltop village overlooking the sea. Now the shops in its main streets are restaurants selling overpriced pizza and burgers so has lost some charm. 

But at the top there's an old church, a castle and a tiny but enchanted public open space, the Square du Caroubier, with a carob tree and olive trees, palms and cycads, rosemary and lavender and other fragrant plants. The benches, walls, even the rubbish bin are covered in patterned tiles in collaboration with the Malmaison Centre.

 

Such a tranquil, fragrant spot. 

 

The Sacred Feminine 

In the castle at the very top of the hill is one of the oldest anthropology museums, which had a special exhibition of ancient images of women carved in stone, Démones et Déesses (Demons and Goddesses). I call it the sacred feminine, but no conclusions were drawn by the curators: are these stone-age statuettes (so often called "Venuses") cult objects? toys? something sinister? or have people simply always liked images of naked women with big boobies and obvious genitalia? It has to be said that France is probably the only place in the world where you can happily take your family to an exhibition of outsize genitalia without inhibitions. The twin domes of the Carlton Hotel above are a tribute to the breasts of local socialite La Belle Otero, after all! 

Prehistoric "Venus" from Greenland, carved in walrus ivory

Tearful siren. Sirens were half-woman, half-bird, from ancient Greece. Hybrid creatures were seen as tormentors of mankind and the story of Ulysses hearing siren song but not being devoured by them is famous enough. Condemned to be not fully woman may account for her weeping. I know how she feels!

I'm not sure the exhibition did my dysphoria much good but, anyway, it was interesting with some precious items. If you prefer something decent and wholesome that will bring you down to earth, here is a royal male personage decently clad in decorated Y-fronts from 6th-Century B.C. Cyprus. Princes in their underpants! Whatever next?

 

 

And as a last word on enthnography, here's one of those Polynesian carvings that, when I was young, was deemed by the likes of Erich von Däniken and others to be proof of alien visitation.

Now the Cold War is over there seem to be far fewer UFOs in the sky, and now the hippies have moved into software engineering, we seem to hear less about aliens, too. Bring back the nutters! ...What? No, I mean harmless ones!

More weird statuary next week as an antidote to current nuttiness. If that makes sense.
 

Foodie news

Well, that's enough on celebrity sexuality and divine bodies. More important than all that is the fact that, although the food where I live in NW Italy is excellent and is that all-healthy Mediterranean diet, there's not actually a lot of variation. In France, however, not only do you have good food, you also have greater regional variety and many foreign restaurants. Personally, I prefer to be adventurous and try new foods, so I avoid chain restaurants. Besides, chains are not as cheap as they claim. A small, local, family-run business is worth supporting,  especially as they take pride in what they do.

On my trip to Provence, therefore, I visited an Indian restaurant (which you never find in Italy) and enjoyed a curry; a Thai restaurant, where I enjoyed a stir-fry; and a US-style restaurant for a quality burger and chocolate brownie. 

As for French regional cuisine, I enjoyed pancakes from Brittany, a savoury one with cheese, smoky bacon and mushrooms to start with, and a sweet one with Nutella and whipped cream (they have a whipped cream machine there that provides endless cream, like in some fairy tale). It makes a change to drink cider or apple juice with your meal. I also found a Corsican restaurant where they had Corsican beef on black bread ... black not because it was rye bread; no, it was black from squid ink, and that made it quite squishy! The pudding was a pinsa, which is like pizza bread but topped with chocolate sauce and hazelnuts and it was HUGE but really delicious. 

Top marks, though, to the Bistrot de Grand Mère right at the top of the hill in Cannes that served me a three-course Normandy-style lunch that for quality, quantity and price was unbeatable: a huge piece of pork terrine with crusty baguette and salad; a big, packed bowl of roast guinea fowl with onions, mushrooms, vegetables and cream sauce; and finally a double sized chocolate mousse. I go nuts for French chocolate mousse (especially if it's double size). The small spoon to eat it with was cheekily shaped like a shovel! I spotted this place after that disappointing line of overpriced pizzas in the road up to old Cannes from the swanky end of town and it met my needs perfectly. It pays to look around and not settle for the nearest.

Another good French experience was at the Café des Musées in Grasse where just two waiting staff worked with an efficiency and a charm that was super professional. The roast pork tenderloin with veg there was really good and the chocolate mousse (essential, see above) was perfect. 

When I got home after ignoring my slimming regime so thoroughly, I found I had barely put on weight. I must've walked it all off!

Sue x 

A trans-resonant fairy tale from Iceland

 Over the last year or so I've been collecting a series of books of Scandinavian folk tales to read on trains, partly because the edition is unusually slim and fits nicely in the pockets of a coat or bag, and partly because they are curious and entertaining stories, a testament to life before heavy industry and urbanisation. 

A lot of scholars wrote down folk tales in the nineteenth century to preserve them, although they often altered them to make them more consistent and readable. The Brothers Grimm (Germany) or W.B. Yeats (Ireland) or Joel Chandler Harris (African-American) are among the best known such collectors.

Very many of these Scandinavian stories are about how to steal valuables from witches, or rescue princesses from trolls who can be made to explode in various imaginative ways. But one tale from Iceland resonated very much and I think you'll see why. 

Before telling you the story, first let's look at the Icelandic notion of the world of Men and the world of Elves. Most pagan Norse tales and religious practices have come to us via the subsequent writings of medieval Christian monks and priests, in the same way that we know a lot about Greek and Roman pagan practices and beliefs because Augustine and others described them in order to criticise them. So why there are Men and Elves (the Hidden Folk) in separate realms has come down to us in this way:

Once upon a time, God went to visit Adam and Eve, so Eve started bathing her children to make them presentable but she only managed to wash half of them before God entered the house, so she hid the dirty ones away. God praised Eve for her beautiful children but since there seemed to be fewer children than he remembered, he asked if she didn't have more. Eve, embarrassed, denied it, but God wasn't fooled and said that those who had been hidden from him should be hidden to men, too. And so it came to pass that Eve's children whom God had seen became the race of Men and those who had been hidden became the race of Elves, remaining invisible to Men unless they wished to be seen. This is why they are called the Hidden Folk.

And so, with that information, we come to the Tale of King Oddur. It's not a long story but I have shortened it and emphasised the more interesting details.

The Tale of King Oddur 

 Once upon a time there was a king who loved by his people who thought it a pity that he was childless. But one day another king named Oddur came from far away with an army and the king was defeated and died in battle. Oddur then reigned over his kingdom instead. Like his predecessor, he soon became loved by the people, though they also thought it a pity that he was childless. 

One day a stranger came asking for lodging over the winter and King Oddur accommodated him in the palace on the condition that on the first day of summer he should tell a secret about the king that nobody else knew, on pain of execution.

The winter came and passed but on the first day of summer, the stranger was unable to tell any secret that he had discovered about the king. And so he was executed.  

The following winter, the same thing happened: a stranger came asking for lodging over the winter and and the king accommodated him in the palace on the condition that on the first day of summer he should tell a secret about the king that nobody else knew, on pain of execution.

The winter came and passed but on the first day of summer, this stranger was also unable to tell any secret that he had discovered about the king. And so he too was executed.  

So it continued for a further four years. Until in the seventh year, when another stranger came and made the same request. He was duly accommodated in the palace on the same conditions as the previous six. He accepted but also requested that, if the king was agreeable, he would like to sleep in the king's own bedchamber. King Oddur agreed to the stranger's additional request.

For a long time the stranger was unable to find out any secrets about the king even though he always stayed close to him. By night, the king slept soundly and did not talk in his sleep; by day he only talked about known affairs of state. 

On Christmas Eve, however, the king got up in the middle of the night, checked to see if his guest was asleep, and crept out of the bedchamber. The stranger was, in fact, awake and just feigning sleep, and stealthily followed the king out of the palace, through the grounds, across a river and into a different land where there was much revelry. 

For a moment, the stranger lost sight of the king but when he saw him again his kingly robes were being removed and he was instead being dressed in a beautiful dress and ornaments fit for a queen. A king approached and greeted this queen with much affection and the stranger realised that King Oddur in the realm of Men was actually a queen here. The king and queen went to preside over a great banquet at the palace and the stranger was able to follow them in unseen and hide near their thrones.

The king whispered to the queen, "Has anyone guessed your secret yet? This is the seventh and last year that this curse on you could be lifted by a stranger speaking the truth about you. Without that, we will be separated for ever."

The queen looked at the king sadly and said that she had left the latest stranger asleep at the palace and was worried that no-one would ever know her secret and that she would never be released from the curse and be able to live as the queen in her rightful realm. 

That's all the stranger needed to know. He sneaked away and returned to the palace the way he had come and by the time King Oddur had returned to the bedchamber, the stranger was genuinely asleep, snoring contentedly.

King Oddur became more and more preoccupied as winter wore on and his ministers and counsellors could see his worry but not even their best news could cheer him up. The first day of summer came and the king summoned the stranger and asked him if he was able to tell a secret about him that nobody else knew.

The stranger replied that the only thing he knew was that the king had other clothes that were far more fetching than those which he wore in this world of Men.

The curse was lifted. King Oddur, with tears and affection, embraced the stranger, and, without revealing more, called his entourage and told them that he was leaving his kingdom to the stranger so as to return to his true home.

And they all lived happily ever after.

The translator feels that the main character may be transgender, or is at least of ambiguous gender. It's not actually clear as Oddur inhabits two split and incompatible realms in which they have different gender roles. What resonated with me, though, was the feeling that one's female life is the real one whereas in the human world one has to play a fake male role that someone else has designated. And that we are often wanting others to know our true nature so that we can live authentically and happily, escaping what, to all intents and purposes, is a curse. Interestingly, Oddur doesn't reveal more to the bystanders and is content that just one worthwhile person knows of her reality. 

Maybe you feel something similar after reading the story, or maybe it doesn't resonate at all. 

Over the years, I've presented historical and cultural material, much of it very ancient, that to me suggests that gender variance is common to all ages and cultures and should be regarded as a normal part of human experience. Obviously, some experience and see gender variance more than others, but I have never come across any age or place that has ever been totally binary.

Sue x 

A day in the perfume capital of France

 Do you like makeup and perfume? 

That's probably a silly question. Of course you do or you wouldn't be here!

Last week I went to the small hilltop town of Grasse in south-east Provence. It's a pretty place with some nice little shops, and a fine view over the surrounding countryside.

Grasse is also the perfume centre of France where traditional plants such as lavender and rose were grown and transformed into perfume. Nowadays, the perfume industry gets natural fragrances more cheaply from exotic locations or in chemistry labs so although it's still the home of companies like Fragonard, the industry is no longer what it was.

They've set up the International Perfume Museum to record that history and the human use of fragrances and makeup. It's a huge, rambling yet well laid out museum and you need a couple of hours to see the thousands of beautiful artifacts. Of course, they have a lot of perfume making machinery, too, but I confess I'm not much into industrial heritage. I was, however, mesmerised by the thousands of perfume bottles and makeup items, and not just modern ones either but lovely Roman glass bottles and beautiful Greek sculptured and painted earthenware ones. I felt there were a few omissions but the topic of posh pongs is so vast they have to be selective.  

Maybe it's simplest just to post a basic commentary with my favourite photos (click to enlarge) ...

... like this stunning ancient Greek perfume bottle in the shape of a warrior's head that you could hold in your clasped hand and would have contained scented oil.

 

Below, kohl pots and applicators from ancient Egypt (top) and mid-late first millennium Byzantium and Syria (bottom). 

I like to use kohl myself, although I appreciate the modern formula is different from the traditional ones. Lead-free is good! Perhaps the best known kohl wearer was Jezebel in the Bible who painted her eyes with it just before her assassination she knew was coming. This is the sort of pot she'd have had on her dressing table. (Another famous queen whose makeup set was her undoing is mentioned below).

The eighteenth-century has the best artifacts, though. Like this box containing beauty spots and an applicator brush. 

Everything in the eighteenth century was not merely functional but beautifully decorative. Like, below, this lady's beauty kit (top) and gentleman's grooming kit (bottom). Obviously, these items were for the very wealthy, but decoration was deemed an essential part of life. I can't help feeling we've lost a lot now that things are functional but 'design' has replaced decoration.

Below, exquisite perfume bottles (top) and steel and gold grooming kit in a column (bottom).

 

 

 

Early nineteenth-century blusher sets. Not so handy as today's plastic ones which fit in your handbag. But that's why you have a maid!

This one belonging to Hortense de Beauharnais, married to Napoleon's brother Louis, who was King of Holland from 1806-10 until his big brother took the kingdom off him. Napoleon was first married to Hortense's mother, the famous Joséphine. Keep it in the family, eh. 

Perfume bottles from the same era. Just wow!

Pomanders from (left) Austria and (right) India. We don't use these any more but you would carry them and sniff them if you came across any bad smells, like undrained streets, people with the plague ... or the lower castes. 

And now for the thousands of perfumes of the last century in case after case arranged by year (left) or style (right: 1920s spray bottles and modern miniatures). 

 

Just a handful of favourite bottles below. Of course, the designer bottle can be as much part of the allure as the contents. Having worked for one well-known fragrance company, I can tell you that the bottle and packaging can represent more of the cost to the customer than the liquid within. The glass and packaging, although machine made now, is often finished by hand.

I'd not heard of Shocking before, but I like the whole look. It's a very expensive fragrance launched in 1937.

 

Calèche by Hermès, as was. Love the chunky bottle, love the colour. Like dousing yourself in absinthe! 

Below, the upper bottles from the 1920s are shaped like cicadas. I couldn't help thinking of the line from Silence of the Lambs with its symbolic moths, "You use Evyan skin cream, and sometimes you wear L'Air du Temps, but not today." 

Love Guerlain's La Petite Robe Noire (Little Black Dress)

Perfumes from Vietnam in national dress bottles.

Beautiful blackberry shaped bottle and case. Good enough to eat.

Two of the items took me back. One was Brut for Men! Advertised in the UK by boxer Henry Cooper with the slogan in his rough, manly voice, "Splash it all over! It freshens you up and makes you smell nice," in a series of adverts in the 1970s with other sportsmen in changing rooms that all the celebrities involved insisted were totally not homoerotic! Some claim the original formula was a chemical hazard!

 

And girls, there's Charlie too (4th from left), which was always something of the female equivalent.

Brut and Charlie together: like Brotherhood of Man in bottled form!

Anyway, the museum has given a special case to the ultimate classic, Chanel no 5, rendered iconic by Marilyn Monroe and Andy Warhol.

As far as the history of local perfume making goes, I was moved and enthralled by these photos of Grasse perfume workers, the first showing women knee and elbow deep in rose petals in the late nineteenth century, the second sorting flowers in the inter-war years. Can you imagine the heady scent of fresh flowers, the delicate petals between your fingers and those wonderful Victorian dresses or the cute hairstyles of the 1920-30s. I can think of worse factory jobs and workwear than these.

 

The most significant item of historic interest there is Marie Antoinette's travelling case, with tea, coffee and chocolate pots as well as necessities for her hair, face and general toilette.

The item is not just a beautiful and precious product; it was her tragic undoing. They made two of these sets and she was dithering which one to send to her sister whilst preparing to flee France as the monarchy lost control over the pace of reform. This was the second set, not quite complete at the time, hence her dithering over which to use herself and which to give away. A maid became suspicious of the queen's motives for sorting her travelling cases, reported her to the revolutionaries and she and the king were intercepted during their escape. They both lost their heads. There's an alternative history to be considered if Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette had successfully made it out of France. As it was, her vanity was their undoing, and here is the awful if elegant proof.

The museum has a pleasant garden with roses, oranges and other fragrant plants in. 

They also maintain a large working fragrance garden you can visit a few miles down the road at Mouans-Sartoux.

In the basement there are rooms dedicated to temporary exhibitions of modern artists. There was a pleasant enough exhibition of local landscapes in watercolour by Ferdinand Springer.

Here's a link to the museum website in English: MIP

Well, it's a beautiful facility full of stunning stuff and the entry fee of only €6.00 is exceptional value. And, as I said, the little town of Grasse itself is worth visiting, with its quirky cathedral in many styles, its walls and old towers, its shops and cafés and other museums. Here's the view from the top over the countryside that was once largely given over to plants for perfume.

 

More on things to see in this area of the Maritime Alps and the Côte d'Azur in my post this time next week.

Smell you later. 

Sue x 

And the Queer Prize goes to...

 I'm back home from my trip to France. I went away partly to avoid the chaos of the Sanremo Music Festival which makes life impossible in this area. Don't take my word for it: Meri the checkout lady at the supermarket, Laura my friendly newsagent and our condo porter were all grumbling today about the restrictions on movement last week and how the council can spend millions on this show every year yet the pavements remain in need of repair. So as the city centre becomes a ghetto for music executives, pop fans and TV cameramen, the rest of us have to put up with the inconvenience. Nice fairy lights, though.

Anyway, this years winner was Sal da Vinci (no relation to the Renaissance genius) who wins (in increasing order of importance) the "Golden Lion" trophy, first refusal on representing Italy at the Eurovision Song Contest, a bunch of local flowers (to be treated with reverence as our winter flowers are the pride and economic mainstay of this, the Riviera of Flowers), and a brass drain cover with his name, song and year that will grace the lengthening line of covers in the centre of the high street.

 

The idea is that when it rains, the water plus any leaves, cigarette butts and other detritus flowing down the grating should make sounds that mimic your song. A cover version, if you will.

It is possible that I made that last paragraph up.

Anyway, to get to the point, there is now a Sanremo Queer Prize, instituted last year by various LGBT organisations, to note and reward the most LGBT-friendly Festival artists, songs or messages. This year's festival wasn't anything like as camp, queer or gender flexible as other years, as it happens. So the Queer Prize was given to Dittonellapiaga for what the jury described as the most "Prideable" song, her Che fastidio! (How annoying), which won third prize overall and which describes everyday frustrations like fashion choices, snobs, politicians, tax forms and (with irony) spiked drinks that give control of you to someone else. Not strictly LGBT themed yet it resonated with the strictly LGBT jury who saw her discomfort with losing bodily autonomy as something that many queer people can identify with. Her choice for her duet evening song, The Lady is a Tramp, made famous by Frank Sinatra, describes someone who accepts her own way rather than the conventions of supposed respectability. There were other honourable mentions among other contestants, too. 

This is her performance on the first evening. I love her makeup ... and what legs! Not sure about the skirt, though ... it makes her lower half look like a mushroom! (OK, that's enough catty remarks, Sue!)

 

 

Sorry, I can't find an English translation yet. Here's The Lady is a Tramp with TonyPitony. Great drag queen wig ... and those legs again.

 

The one thing I will say about the Sanremo Music Festival is that it shows European popular music is alive and healthy. More out of laziness and cheapness than desire, Europe has been importing US films, music, foodstuffs, style and other cultural items but I think the interest is rapidly wearing thin thanks to the current crass US regime. Native productions and produce, which have often taken a back seat these last 80 years, could well move back to the mainstream here. If the US wants to keep exporting its stuff, it needs to change its tune. I think the interruptions of the English text in this number with Italian dialogue is one sign of this change, as well as a bit of the artists' characteristic irreverence.

 

March 1st

I was suffering from hay fever and I forgot to exclaim "White Rabbits!" on waking, which is supposed to bring a lucky spring. Never mind. As part of my series on odd local customs, I'd like to point out that in the mountain village of Calizzano near here, March 1st is heralded by anyone who has a horn, trumpet, shell or other item that can make noise. Half the village goes up the mountain and greets the day by tooting as hard as they can from there, with the other half of the village replying from the settlement below. Traditionally, it's supposed to encourage snowmelt and fertile fields over the growing season. 

So I missed my annual white rabbit ceremony but I did see the first butterfly of the year, a little pale blue/lilac thing. In many European traditions, the colour of the first butterfly indicates the mood of the summer to some. I'm not sure I've ever seen this colour in my first butterfly before so I don't know what it signifies. Maybe it will just be a pretty year. As Tove Jansson, in that most beautiful of children's books, Finn Family Moomintroll (original title, Trollkarlens hatt), put it:

 And suddenly they caught sight of the first butterfly. (As everyone knows, if the first butterfly you see is yellow the summer will be a happy one. If it is white then you will just have a quiet summer. Black and brown butterflies should never be talked about - they are much too sad.)

Moomintroll and the Snork Maiden spot a golden butterfly. This can only mean the best possible summer, as it turns out. They've already found some tame clouds to float on.

Meeting Moomintroll in London. Happy butterflies in my tummy.

Sue x

The quiet lanes of Provence

 Hello little blog. Just a short post. Checking-in, as it were.

I'm enjoying a relaxing yet very full stay in Provence, enjoying the quiet higgledy-piggledy lanes and squares of old towns, palm-fronted promenades, some amazing exhibitions and a lot of really good food.

 

Luggy the LGBT Crab and Lizzy the Lesbian Lobster on the beach at Cannes. 

It's good to be away from noise and the news so I really have no idea what the Orange Toddler may be raving about right now.

The aim. Get off the closed world of the phone. Sculpture in the harbour at Antibes

A few early photos ...

At a tea shop by the fountain in the Place Des Aires in the pretty hilltop town of Grasse

My hotel is just off the main square in Antibes and yet is totally quiet at night. Comfy spacious room with typical provençal décor.

Magnolia in early spring, Provence Art & History Museum

Shoes and designer bags ...all made of chocolate

Jodie Foster was here, Cannes film festival. Lizzy the Lesbian Lobster approved monument.

Comedy cactus invites comment

But this is not a holiday blog so, once home, I will be writing in detail about the stunning International Perfume Museum, which is a must-see (and smell), the Sacred Feminine exhibition, and some other items of trans/LGBT interest.

Sue x