CRAC and LAC

Well it's been so long, I can hardly remember how to update my blog, but here we are again, recording a couple of thoughts for posterity (well, for the two other people who actually read the thing - hi Sarah, hi Helen). I'm not even sure that either of them are all that bothered about contemporary art (although H is into her pots - sorry, ceramics - and Pierre Soulages) but for what it's worth, I just wanted to big up the CRAC and the LAC, both of which I've visited since my last posting. And hey, I said I planned to get there, so at least I'm as good as my word.

The LAC (Lieu d'Art Contemporain) is now closed for the winter except by appointment, but there's nothing to stop you ringing them up and arranging to go down to Sigean for an afternoon. I popped down with Sylvia of FRUC-fame (oh do keep up - if you've read the previous posts you'll understand) and we had a jolly time checking out Robert Morris' work, and a very odds n' sods, eclectic collection of works by all kinds of artists whose names you'd recognise (like Yves Klein - yes, he of that lovely blue). The space itself is huge (it's an old winery, I believe) and its rather lovely to stumble across it amidst the new build, breeze block landscape that is the outskirts of Sigean. There's certainly lots of silence in which to ponder the works on display, and plenty of space within which to admire them, so on that front it's a winner. It's not exactly the Saatchi gallery, but then Languedoc ain't London either, so there you go. Check it out at www.lac.narbonne.com or call 04 68 48 83 62.

And next up, the CRAC (Centre Regional d'Art Contemporain), in Sete, a good half hour's schelp from the station but by the time you get there you're really ready to sit down and drink it all in. They've got a great show on until October 15 (hurry, hurry!) called Les Fils de Marcel (yes, more of that Chauffe Marcel expo I've talked about before), with rooms housing amazing installations that get you thinking "how did they do that?" (or sometimes, why did they do that?) That's the funny thing about living here: you have to make much more of an effort to get to some bona fide contemporary art, so when you do finally achieve your goal, it feels good and you just appreciate it that much more. http://crac.lr.free.fr

Next posting: SNAC and WACK. No actually it's the Musee de Serignan. Don't hold your breath, though. It may take me a while to get round to blogging it.

Frac, Fruc, Lac n' Crac

and Frig as well, while we're at it. As in, it's so friggin' hot I can hardly bear to turn on my 'pooter, and I certainly can't be arsed to blog that much... (as if i could in the first place). It's 21.48 as I type, and our thermostat cum temperature gauge jobby in our hallway says 29.5 degrees centrigrade. We've just come back from a totally cool place (in every sense of the word) in the Lozere, called Gardoussel. It's a lovely green (in both senses of the word) place with gites and chambre d'hotes, run by a smiley zen scottish couple called Sharon and Alex. Alex is well into his ayurvedic medicine and yoga, but YOU don't have to be to go there and just enjoy the peace and lower temperatures. Check it out, it's THE place to get cool this summer. www.thesuncentre.com

And if you're wondering about the Frac/Fruc reference, I'm just that I'm all excited about ART at the moment. Helen has just fired me up about the reopening of Montpellier's Musee Fabre (read all about it at http://cafeandmarmite.blogspot.com), which prompts me to rave about the whole homage to Marcel Duchamp show that's being held at umpteen venues in ten different towns across the Languedoc this summer, until October 29. Organised by the Fonds Regional d'Art Contemporain of Languedoc-Roussillon (FRAC to its friends), this is a feast of all kinds of thought-provoking state-of-the-artiness. Coming from London, I feel starved of this stuff, so I get all hot and bothered when it comes to town. So far we've seen the big show at the Panacee (a former School of Medicine in the centre of Montpellier, fab atmospheric show space) and another smaller offering at the former Chapelle de la Misericorde. Next up on my list is the LAC at Sigean (Lieu d'Art Contemporain), showing Robert Morris, and the CRAC (fruc knows what that stands for) in Sete. Dunno what 's on there, but I'm going anyway. With any luck they'll have aircon.

The title of this Surrealfest is Chauffe Marcel, which is something that someone famous (Jacques Brel, perhaps?) once said to his drummer (or some other muso type) as they cranked out a jam (un boeuf, as they say in France). Chauffe Marcel? I don't bloody think so.

And finally, le FRUC. As in , le fruc, c'est chuk. We recently met a really nice bloke called Stephane, and his partner Sylvia. Visit www.lefruc.biz and you'll get directions from the FRAC to the FRUC. Arguably the FRAC has more to look at, but the FRUC is a more creative space, and you get a warmer welcome and a better cup of tea there. Tell him I said so!

B.A. at the F.D.A.

The other night I did something brave. I went to a meeting of the F.D.A., all on my own. A business acquaintance introduced me to this group (it’s a kind of member-get-member thing), and always being up for a challenge, I went along to see what was what. And to put you out of your misery, F.D.A stands for Femmes de Decisions et Actions.

Blimey. I’ve always been a bossy boots, kick-ass, know-it-all kinda gal, and here I was in a room full of ‘em. No, I’m exaggerating. They are (for the most part) nice, intelligent, educated Frenchwomen who give up their time to do Good Deeds (or what the French call BA, for Bonne Action) and raise money for good causes. The night I went along, they were handing over a cheque for 10,000 euros, which is the kind of money not to be sniffed at. I had a delicious dinner (these things are always done over a good meal) and some thought-provoking conversations (no-one asked me why I moved to France, which was bloody refreshing), and to top it all off, I found a new hobby horse (excuse me while I heave myself into the saddle).

So… Montpellier-based mothers of young children, lend me your ears. What do you do with those old baby clothes that just can't be reused or given away? Maybe you're not planning any more children, and your girlfriends just aren't sprogging right now? Fed up of looking at that old car seat/cot/bottle warmer/steriliser/other piece of baby kit? Les Restos du Coeur can use it all. Part of the charity set up by famous French alternative actor/comedian Coluche to help the homeless, there are now five Restos Bébés in Herault (see www.restosducoeur34.org for details) where young mothers can go for support and to get free food, clothing and other babycare items for children up to 2 years old. What they need are your old baby clothes and kit. If anyone has anything to donate, there are two drop-off points, both in and nearby Montpellier. One is in the centre of town, at Les Arceaux : call Isabelle Plana on 04 99 13 32 50 to arrange a convenient time to drop. The other is in Lattes, call Josy Plana (her mother) on 04 67 65 20 14, same arrangement.

Moved To Tears

Just a shortie. Wanted to write about last night's outing to Montpellier's Theatre des Treize Vents www.theatre-13vents.com

Brilliant. A recently built, smart theatre with cosy club armchairs in the foyer, delicious food courtesy of the team from Le Baloard (a restaurant well worth visiting on boulevard Louis Blanc, 04 67 79 36 68) , a small but perfectly formed book stall run by Montpellier's Sauramps store - oh, and great, thought-provoking, contemporary performances on the stage. I saw The Vagina Monologues there earlier this year and loved it. Last night it was September 11, 2001, a piece performed - in English, with French subtitles - by a cast of American actors from the Center for New Performance at CalArts, Los Angeles. You can guess the subject matter. You can guess my reaction (there's a clue in the title).

This is why I love living in the centre of Montpellier, and why I doubt I shall ever move to deepest, darkest rural France. Great big dollops of contemporary culture. Practically on my doorstep. Cinemas that show art house films, in the original version, just one block away from my flat. Bring it on.

The Nice Man Cometh

Dear Diary

Met a Very Nice Man today - for the second time!

First time was December last year on Montpellier's Place de la Comedie, where the annual Fete des Vins was in full swing. Working my way round with my friend HB, we tried to decide which of the many winemakers' stalls to visit. The way it works is that you pay your money - I think it was 3 euros - and get given three little tickets and a glass (you get to keep the glass, too). You swop your tickets for a glass of wine at any of the many stalls, so there we were, two wine novices, figuring out who to plump for. "Ooh, nice looking label there," said my friend, stopping in front of the Domaine de Saumarez stand. "Yes, nice looking bloke too," I muttered, "let's give him a go." Or words to that effect. That's how wine-savvy we are, me and my friend. We held out our tickets and glasses, beaming brightly. The Nice Looking Man smiled back, and said, in English that was so damn perfect it was obvious he WAS English, "Yes, we try hard with our labels, we find they appeal to women, and in your average household, it's women who tend to buy the wine." Well, he had us, hook, line and sinker. We tried his wines, I mumbled some nonsense about getting a hint of shoe polish (I was "doing a Jilly", which HB has never allowed me to forget), chatted a little, bought some bottles (great labels, and the contents weren't bad either) and then pushed off. Well, there were a few other good looking guys there too, you see, and we still had two tickets left apiece.

Fast forward to May 2006 and HB and I decide to spend a rare, work-free, child-free day by going off to taste some wine. We just can't help ourselves: some mysterious force pulls us to Murviel les Montpellier, where we are charmingly received by The Nice Man (aka Robin Williamson), who puts up with all our wittering about wine, warns me (very nicely) not to park my bum on a wine barrel that's about to explode, so chock-full of fermenting liquid is it, and who comes across as funny, self-deprecating, and A Good Egg. We leave with a car boot full of bottles, and our purses a little lighter. Then it's off for lunch at Le Mas de Saporta, the showcase for AOC Coteaux du Languedoc wines and a jolly nice restaurant on the side. If you're in Montpellier, give it a try - it's the perfect place to sample top quality local wine and cuisine. No website that I could find, but they're on 04 67 06 88 66.

And just to prove that I'm not just a silly bint who's swayed by a pretty label and a smile, here's my review of Domaine de Saumarez 'Aalenien' 2004 Coteaux du Languedoc. It's 65% syrah, 35% grenache, aged in barrels of various sizes, 90% of which are new. Very deep coloured. Open nose with sweet dark fruit leads to a lush palate with good concentration and richness. Deliciously forward (rather like my good self), richly textured, and quite hard to resist (a bit like Robin Williamson, I suppose). A very ripe style, with nicely integrated oak.

OK, I confess, that wasn't me. It was lifted (apart from the brackets, you understand) from www.wineanorak.com, which is as good a place as any to mug up on wine. And if you want to catch up with Robin and his wares, he'll be at the Estivales on Montpellier's Esplanade, just off the Place de la Comedie, on Friday July 7th from 7pm, where you'll be able to taste the deliciously dry white Domaine de Saumarez 'S' 2004, which goes (so I'm told) rather well with oysters - which will also be available. Failing which, go find him at Domaine de Saumarez, 34570 Murviel les Montpellier, +33 (0)6 24 41 56 20. And failing that, if you're in the UK, his wines are sold through Handford's of London - South Kensington.

Arrive, Survive, Thrive

Here's a thing. Recently, I've been having a funny feeling. A good one, mind you.

We ARRIVED in the Languedocalmost four years ago. It was bloody awful. I spoke fluent French, had a new job to keep me busy, a supportive partner, a new wicker basket to be filled with organic veggies at the colourful local market and all that gubbins, but it was, nevertheless, PANTS. Once the honeymoon period had worn off (ie. once the winter set in - we arrived in September, just as the grape harvest was beginning), reality set in. I was miserable. Living in the countryside bored me rigid. Vineyard views are all well and good, but they're no substitute for (say) the London Institute of Contemporary Art, a shopping spree at APC, or an afternoon in Liberty fingering fancy fabrics and sniffing Dyptique candles. You get my drift.

We survived the first two months by drinking vast quantities of local wine and plotting our escape to a larger town (bigger, better market), where we rented a soul-less modern villa for eighteen months and considered our options. This was SURVIVAL time. It was OK, and even, like a curate's egg, good in parts (the Friday market run, the Saturday morning cafe and croissant fest). But man cannot live by bread alone (not even crusty banette), and I found myself pining for urban thrills.

Reader, you'll be unsurprised to hear that we got the hell out of Dodge and finally settled in the Big Bad City (aka Montpellier), where dog shit is copious and binners are free. Only the night before last I had to call the SAMU because some poor dog-on-a-string person had apparently taken an overdose and was expiring on our doorstep (I kid you not.) Well, waddaya know? All big cities have their downsides. I don't care. I love living here. Four years on and we've met some PLUs (People Like Us), I've got some close women friends who I really click with (big up yourself, HB! and before you ask, they're a mix of Brits, Americans and Frenchwomen), I'm getting my fix of contemporary culture thanks to the Diagonal cinemas, the Panacee art space, Sauramps book store, the Montpellier Danse festival, the Corum theatre - you name it, I'm checking it - and we've found the best beach bars, the nicest Thai restaurant in town, and the magnificent municipal library. Finally, Life Is Good. We are thriving.

So to anyone out there who's not sure about their new life in France: hang in there. It gets better with time. For some, it's only a matter of months. For me, it took a lot longer. I met a woman last week who moved to the Tarn 15 years ago: it took her five years to start feeling happy in France, she told me.

Stung Into Action

I admit it. I've been stung into action. I speak as someone who got all excited at having a blog, and then found she couldn't be arsed to write it. That's the funny thing about blogs: they're like opinions. Everyone (well, these days, practically everyone) has one. But then you realise the awesome responsibility of Having A Blog: people expect you to update it, all regular-like. Jesus, not only are they reading your diary, but then they have the nerve to whinge when you don't post on a daily basis. Well excuse me, but whose blog is it, anyway? My excuse is that I write for a living (yes, really), so in my precious free time, writing isn't always what I want to do for fun. And blogging is what I do when I have something I think is worth saying, plus the time to get near my keyboard. Which, surprise surprise, isn't every damn day.

OK, rant over. PH of TLP, you have inadvertently kicked my arse. I hear you. I shall post more often, promise.