ART AND DEATH ON THE COTE
VERMEILLE
from
The
Forked River
Anthology
January
In the largest
coastal town, St Cyprian, the chronic mayor Jacques Bouille (62) is in
prison.
His push to rival Ceret’s pre-eminence as a centre for modern
art has ended in
chaos. Le
Journal’s front-page
is Bizarre, bizarre. It’s a bordel. He was arrested on Christmas
Day for buying art
works with public money to decorate the walls of his house. This
fort-like
redoubt is famous for having windows on only one side, and
it’s not the front.
Chez Bouille in effect is a private gallery worth at least ten million
euros.
The collection is eclectic, lesser-known Fauves, fashionable
contemporary
artists, and drawings by Giacometti’s brother. Bouille
stockpiled artworks
elsewhere too. On the walls of the St Cyprian Art Gallery a stray Othon
Friesz
appeared (unattributed and, indeed, unnoticed). A Jean Puy has been
discovered
in the toilet of a bar owned by his cousin-in-law.
March
Le
Journal is in
direct contact with Bouille. He
sends Open Letters to the editor, handwritten. Bitter about the
confiscation of
the priceless artworks he was holding for St Cyprian till it had a
suitable
space, sweet about his wife who loves them, and him, in that order. But
the
legal process is not a huis
clos. So
it’s clear the supercherie
swindle is not just art for art’s sake. He has for years been
giving public
land to developers in exchange for the purchase of bigger and better
paintings
and sculptures. A Swiss-based estate agent called Damien Pillier has
been implicated.
The barter, Operation
Troc, became
so difficult to administrate that his
staff in the Town Hall had to be expanded beyond Bouille’s
extended family. The
UMP Party has disowned him, and the first adjoint mayor has taken over
the
running of the town.
I know the St
Cyprian Gallery desk staff. An arty bimbo whose petit ami in
Port-Vendres must be someone’s husband, as she did not give
his name, and
Bouille’s demure wife, Marie-Antoinette, who
doesn’t talk but hands you the
leaflet for the show and continues reading her book. The Gallery has an
annex
for touring contemporary exhibitions. Japanese maximalists, Dutch
minimalists,
nursery toys repainted into satires of domestic life. The artistic
director,
Giles de Montfort, resigned unexpectedly about three years ago. Asked
why, the
desk bimbo said he had reached his point de rolex (retirement age). As
it was an honourary position this explanation surprised me.
Since then the
shows have been in the hands of the arty bimbo, and going down hill
(drawings
by Francis Bacon, mainly soiled newspaper cuttings, that have traveled
the
world). I must have seen Jacques Bouille speechifying at vernissages,
but don’t
remember him. Maybe he lacked presence, or was overshadowed by Giles de
Montfort, whose every moleheap is a mountain, and all his ideas extraordinaire.
Bouille’s photo in Le Journal suggests an homme discret. He wears
heart-shaped cuff-links on his sleeve.
Most of the staff
in the Town Hall are under investigation. Several have been arrested.
One
adjoint mayor has joined Bouille in jail. Bail has been refused for
fear of
intimidation of witnesses. Jacques Bouille in a letter to the newspaper
says,
‘Everything was done for Marie-Antoinette. She loves art and
I love her’. The
facsimile shows the scrawl of a desperate man, feeble and uneven,
leaving the
page with unfinished words. ‘And now she’s
forbidden to visit me.’ It was the
last Le
Journal published.
The judge threatened complicity.
April
On
the first of
April incendries were reported on the seafront
at St Cyprian, with a
photo of a burnt out car. I wondered if it was a poisson d’avril (an
April Fool is a fish in France),
and drove there to check. An ice-cream kiosk was in cinders, looking
like a
Tanguy sculpture hanging in the wind. The car itself must have once
resembled
Salvador Dali’s Cadillac for Gala in his Figueras Museum.
Fried to its metal skeleton, now more a Richard Serra or Kevin Kline
installation. But I doubt if there will be tourist buses coming to see
it. St
Cyprian tends to attract pensioners in camping vans. Their interest in
surrealism and abstract expressionism is limited.
The Art Gallery
was showing drawings from the Desnoyer Collection. Sedate beach scenes
from the
nineteen fifties. Bathing beauties in two-piece swimsuits, sportifs in
striped singlets, fluffy dogs. Nobody is drowning. Happy days when the
law
didn’t concern itself with what mayors were up to. The
Contemporary Art annex
looks terminally closed.
The
coastal road
back to Port-Vendres is a wilderness of new housing developments until
you
reach Argelès. I thought of Hermann Goring. He had a similar
art obsession to
Bouille. But he didn’t do it for the money. Prestige in
ownership, and
attracting the right class of German to the National Socialist Party,
was enough.
It is possible he liked art too. At the fall of the Reich his private
gallery
had over a thousand paintings, hundreds of sculptures and tapestries.
Some were
gifts or bribes. Most were extorted. Art is a badman’s world.
But it touches
the heart.
The burnt out car
belonged to the second adjoint mayor of St Cyprian, Marc Blasco (54),
who in
February tried to end his days by jumping from a bridge over the Route
Nationale. He was responsible for seafront affairs, and had fast-food malbouffe
businesses there.
Blasco is still in hospital. Better than jail if you didn’t
have a broken neck. But he isn’t talking. And won’t
be, says an unnamed friend,
‘unless he wants his family home torched
too’.
May
On
Mayday Remi
Bolte (68), the office manager in the Town Hall, was put under house
arrest.
Local wags say that he is the verrou (bolt) to Bouille’s écrou
(nut). They were the
joint masterminds, and had friends in high places in
regional and national politics. There are photos to prove it. But this
latest arrest
signals that there will be no complicity at the highest level in
turning a
blind eye. Bouille’s request for bail has once again been
refused. The truth may
come out someday but he has been finally abandoned by his Party. His
isolation
is now complete, with no hope of protection from above. He has been in
solitary
confinement for five months.
On the last day
of May, Bouille hanged himself in his cell from the cord of his
dressing gown.
Many will be relieved. There is no scapegoat like a dead one. The real
masters
can sleep easily in their beds. The Bishop of Perpignan allowed Bouille
a
Church funeral, which briefly united the town behind the family. A
demure but
defiant wife and two grown-up children walked in the cortege, en marche
silencieuse,
to the cemetery. I think there would have been some poetical justice if
he had
been buried in the Plage d’Art, the beach he renamed.