Matisse’s Modest Version of Notre-Dame in the South of France
High in the hills above the French city of Nice is the small village of Vence, famous among other for the Chapelle du Rosaire built by the great artist Matisse. I had always wanted to visit it and took the opportunity of a friend’s celebration in Menton to make the detour to Vence. From Nice’s airport, it is easy to reach. There are city buses stopping every 30 minutes on the main double-carriage road across from Terminal 1. From there, it takes about 50 minutes to Vence, driving uphill through the glorious countryside that attracted so many artists, and passing through the famous medieval walled town of St-Paul de Vence. For the French person I am, these names rang like poetry associated as they are with art and beauty, and that probably explained my disappointment on that day. The reality didn’t live up to expectations.
The whole area is no longer the untouched refuge sought after by 20th century artists to escape the demands of city life, it has become the greater Nice conurbation. As a matter of fact, I was sitting on a city bus run by the Nice municipality, together with the many people who were going back home after a morning in town. Along the way were houses after houses, built so close together that it was obvious that no single plot had been spared. No one can resist the Calypso of profit. The Cypress trees and olive groves immortalised on canvases had been replaced by an impressive concentration of red tiled roofs, and the city bus at the service of residents in this suburban configuration, stopped every five to ten minutes. Eventually, we reached Vence at the end of the line. On the bus, I had befriended the man sitting next to me (I think he was called Lionel), he was going to visit his girlfriend, after a week in Corsica taking care of his children. Being a professional stonecutter and sculptor, he had many work commissions building marble terraces and staircases in luxury villas in the area. He told me about the extravagant demands of some of his clients, agreeing with me that the whole region has been somewhat ruined by excessive urban development. What would Matisse or Picasso think if they saw their beloved South of France today?
Lionel walked me to Matisse’s chapel located about 10 minutes away from the central bus stop (it was on his way he said), across a bridge connecting two valleys. That side of Vence was better preserved to my 21st century eyes, with some wealthy and well-kept 1930s villas that recalled the former glory of the area. Today, we may idealise this period as being more authentic, but this earlier urbanisation may have set in motion the intense development that followed. Like us today, well-to-do city dwellers wanted to own their parcel of this soothing Mediterranean landscape and climate, regardless of their impact on the environment. To their credit, they did it with aesthetic sense and architectural research unlike the uniform blocks that have since disfigured the area.
At the chapel, a modern cubic building next to the Dominican Convent that commissioned it, Lionel and I parted. He was tempted to go in (he had never seen it inside although he is from the area), but was rebutted by the rather high entry price. I tried to help him using my press card but the discount was too minimal to make it worth his while. As I had come all the way for it, I said goodbye and went in. To access the actual chapel, I had to go downstairs through a couple of exhibition corridors with many pictures and texts retracing its construction. Before starting, Matisse was overtaken by self-doubt even though he was already 80 years-old and had an accomplished career behind him. He wasn’t sure he would be capable of creating a lasting spiritual work. He was benchmarking himself against the great medieval cathedrals of Europe, and comparing his modest chapel to the likes of Notre-Dame de Paris. How could he recreate the spiritual and mysterious atmosphere of Notre-Dame was his question. How could he emulate the effect created by the light dimly shining through the intricate stained glass windows? That was his challenge.
On entering the chapel, I had the opposite sensation. It was white, bright and almost cold. On the left side, were stained windows representing Matisse’s famous collage patterns in just three basic colours: yellow, blue and green. They looked like two flower leaves, reminiscent of a tulip drawn by a child, in an alternation of yellow and blue on a green background. On the other two sides, the walls were tiled in white with black drawings by the artist representing on one panel, the passion of Christ and on the other, the Madonna and child surrounded by flowers or clouds depending on one’s interpretation. Matisse had painted the ceramic tiles before firing them and assembled them together on the wall once ready. At the other end from where I was standing, was a slightly raised wooden altar in a sleek oval shape and a tiled drawing of St Dominique on the back wall. To me the place seemed empty of its soul, it was a work of art people came to visit, walking in and out as they were told rather than a spiritual shelter. I didn’t want to admit my disappointment to myself, maybe I was the one unable to appreciate Matisse’s great artistry. I sat there for a while looking for his spirit. It was only once I saw the postcard pictures displayed at the exit near the reception that I understood the Master’s genius. At certain times of day, when the sunlight was sufficiently low, the coloured patterns on the stained glass were projected onto the chapel’s floor and walls, metaphorically embracing whoever was standing inside. Matisse had taken into account the elements from which his masterpiece could no be dissociated. When I think about it today, I visualise the light I didn’t see shine through.
