Battle Stations

Last night I felt I'd spent a weekend being wrung out and forced through an emotional mangle. As I sipped life-restoring nectar, on my TWDB's advice (as he couldn't be there to proffer it to my trembling lips) - a delectable rosé from Château Puech Haut, I pondered the likelihood of surviving the next 10 years without ending up a gibbering wreck - years when my eldest and then youngest will be teenagers.

After winning Saturday's battle with said eldest over enjoyable, healthy activities, the weekend war continued with a suggestion that we go and see the Courbet exhibition that I hadn't managed to see previously. Why yesterday in particular? Well, it was the first Sunday in the month and would therefore be FREE - no mean consideration.

My TWDB was out of town, so we went with pal B whose idea it had been anyway. On hearing this, my eldest's hands were thrown up in horror and despair, Gallic utterances along the lines of 'oh no/it's gonna be so boring/I don't want to go/let me stay at home' etc. came out in a wail accompanied by a fine line in sulky grimaces and black looks. Frankly, anyone would think I'd suggested he go and see 'Angelina Ballerina' at the cinema instead of a renowned exhibition of paintings by one of the leading French painters of the 19th century which included the world famous 'L'Origine du Monde'.

He didn't actually have any say in the matter, despite saying a lot, and grumpily went and sat in the car. His younger brother was saving his devilry for later, lulling me into a false sense of security by happily taking charge of the sandwiches from the back seat.

"Let's go over lunch time when there'll be fewer people" had said pal B... along with enough people to send the queue round the block. An hour later we got in, the boys having spent much of that in the playground opposite which managed to wind my youngest up into a state of excitement which he proceeded to expend inside the museum. To my despair.

I'm not a great one for portraits, which was one of Courbet's means of earning his living so there were lots, but I did like his mise en scene where he painted himself doing something or being someone. There he was in despair tearing his hair out with a wild look on his face, or he'd be sitting at a table eyeing the world cynically as he leaned against the wall smoking a pipe, or he'd pretend to be a cellist, or a wounded man, and so on.

What with his self-portraits and his depictions of women in states of undress including 'Sleep (Le Sommeil)' showing two naked women sleeping together, he comes across as rather a jolly fellow.

The boys were most fascinated by two paintings showing a country scene of a pond by a cave painted on two successive years. They saw that they were the same and then naughtily suggested that they might be a 'Spot the Difference' pair. My youngest stopped tormenting my eldest and slipping through gaps in walls while he searched for 'les sept differences'.

As we got to the end, chronologically, my eldest declared his relief that Courbet was dead so we could go home, which we did, via a drinkie sitting outside on the Place de la Comedie. On arrival home, my eldest sprinted off to see his friends and that was the end of him until 7.30pm. I was quite relieved really...

Weekend war results: Battle 1 won by me. Battle 2 won by me. War won by my eldest.

Damn!

Courbet Watch

On Wednesday, I had an unexpected couple of hours free. Did I choose to start on my list of important things to do? Er.... no. I went into town with pal B and tried to get into the Courbet exhibition at the Musée Fabre instead.

It was going to cost a princely 8€, but I was prepared to pay the price to mooch around at my leisure. On the other hand I was not prepared to pay the price to stand in a queue for half an hour and then be obliged to dash round in twenty minutes. Obviously we had picked the wrong day.

So, what to do. Pal B had taken valuable annual leave off to come and see this exhibition, so I felt we really should do something worthwhile, and not just sit outside a bar on the place de la Comedie guzzling beer, appealing though that was. Opposite the Musée Fabre is the Pavillion, and this summer, the exhibition is photographs by Weegee the Famous.

I had discovered his work last year when I enjoyed a day to myself sauntering round Paris and visited the Mailhol Museum where they were showing a Weegee exhibition. The Montpellier version is probably the same one, maybe one or two extra photos, but essentially what I saw last year. This was no problem to me, however, especially as the exhibition was free.

Weegee took photos of life in New York during the 40s. By the look of things, New York was not a terribly agreable place to live what with drunks all over the place, fires breaking out in buildings everywhere, stultifying summer nights (no air con), snowy winters, deprivation and poverty contrasted with the rich of high society. Clothes didn't seem to get washed much either. Weegee caught it all with a candour that makes his photographs so terribly moving. He captured emotions, from joyful to desperate, curious and indifferent. Life as it was.

My favourite photograph is the one where a group of kids in the middle of a very hot summer's day have found a fire hydrant and turned it on, and are dancing in the water as it pours out under pressure. It's one of his more joyful photos.

Maybe I'll try and get to see Courbet another day, but I can see I'll have to time it well because he is a popular artist, and people are prepared to queue to see his exhibition! The best time is probably as it opens one day in the next couple weeks when everyone has gone back to work and school.

You gotta be sneaky about doing what you want. I don't like exhibitions full of people standing in front of the pictures I want to look at, dodging my footsteps and drifting in front of me. Like they do it on purpose. As I can't order a private viewing, I'll just have to discover when the least popular time is, and go then! Ha! Sneaky, see?