Locating this place was a bit of a challenge. I didn’t see a street address on the internet
material, so we couldn’t plug the details into the GPS. The tourist office in Le Thor had closed
about two minutes before we arrived, so we returned after lunch to
inquire. The directions sounded
manageable, and we did, in fact, arrive; but once we left the main road, it was
a little bit of a crap shoot. We were inspired
by a group of school children on the side of the rural dirt road looking as
though 1) they might have visited an interesting historical site, and 2) they
were waiting for a bus that might also be having a little trouble getting back
to them down this little road.
The first and only sign was located way back at the first
turn from the main road. After that we
made guesses about whether or not to take one road or the other. Next to some corn fields and just beyond the
school children was another dirt road with a building beyond. We took that turn and arrived in a small dirt
parking lot. As we pulled in, there we
found a woman dressed in jeans and a French striped tee shirt.
I rolled down the window and asked “C’est La Bastide
Rose?”
“Bien sure,” (of course) she responded.
“Est-ce qu'on peut stationner ici?” (Can one park here?)
She swept her hand around and pointed to some open places—there
were many. There were only two other cars
there.
We emerged from the car and she approached us. “Bonjour.
Je suis Poppy Salinger.” (I am
Poppy Salinger.)
We all shook hands and introduced ourselves, trying to keep
our mouths shut and our wits about us so as not to show how awestruck we were by
the lady of the house. I think she asked
where we were from and I told her, so she switched into English, though she
went back and forth while she was with us.
We walked toward the museum while she talked about what we
would see. She seemed a little humble about
asking us for the entry fee to the museum, a mere 5€, and we gave her money for
the most plebian of tickets—a simple plain piece of paper with a number on
it. She put the money into a little
pouch, which she then put back in a drawer under the table in the deserted
room, the door to which appeared to be left open most of the time. We laughed over the extra ticket she gave me
and which I returned since, she said, it would complicate her bookkeeping a
bit.
She showed us around, explaining the installation of the
sculpture in the garden, the tributes and art accompanying it, the Zen installation,
and a little about the memorabilia from her husband, Pierre Salinger. She suggested that we come for dinner some
time, explaining that the chef makes a wonderful meal and that if it were left
up to her, everyone would be running from the table. I said that perhaps we would treat ourselves
and make a reservation.
She left us on our own for a while. We wandered around photographing the Bernar
Venet exhibit, which had previously been installed at Versaille and was moved
to Le Thor to live on Poppy Salinger’s lawn from June to November. We entered the back of the building—the Museum,
and she reappeared to talk more about the writings of the former Senegalese
president, Leopold Senghor, and the art, which accompanied his books. The books are beautifully printed on
oversized paper. All written in French,
of course, they are elegies to, among others, Martin Luther King. The exhibit has photographs and explanations
of the creation of the accompanying art that is published as part of the books.
She talked about some of the art—the African masks, the
Picasso copies, the Chagall connection.
She answered questions about some of the people in the photographs with
Senghor—one of the artists, Senghor’s aide, Georges Pompidou—a personal friend
of Senghor. She was quite the
encyclopedia.
She popped back in to start a film on Senghor, which went
too long and was in French only so we didn’t watch most of it. She had darkened the room for the watching,
which made it difficult to see the other items in the room, and the light
switch was behind a panel I didn’t feel comfortable searching for, though I’m
sure she wouldn’t have minded. The place
was completely deserted. We were alone
wherever we went.
I looked at every single photograph and every single letter,
note, gift, medallion, business card, award and other memorabilia from Pierre
Salinger. Around the walls were the
original panel drawings from the biographical book that was written after his
death by Alex DiGregorio. The pictures
were cartoons. The text was not
voluminous but was informative. And
there were Emmy awards from his reporting and interviewing on “Nightline;” a
copy (one of only a few) of a key to the Bastille in Paris; a cigar case that
was given to him by Jacqueline Kennedy after JFK’s death and accompanied by a
note of gratitude (both JFK and Salinger were cigar smokers); a photo with the
entire White House staff under Kennedy; photos with many famous people
(Margaret Thatcher, Anwar Sadat, Grace
Kelley, Jack Chirac, Hillary Clinton, Jimmy Carter, JFK); passports; press
badges; a proclamation signed by Governor Brown the elder for his service on
behalf of the State in the Senate; and much more.
We walked back outside to look at Jacques Salles’ Zen
exhibit, which included bamboo poles along the path with white plastic flags
blowing in the winds—like plastic bags plus plastic tails. The path led to a hanging of individual words
on white rectangles. Following was a
platform with an array of mobiles very much like Calder’s. Beyond the exhibit flowed the canal over a
dam. And in the orchard were several
persimmon trees pendulous with ripe fruit—some of which dropped (actually “plopped”
on the ground) as we stood there.
Back across the canal toward the car, we stopped again on
the lawn to take a few last shots of the sculpture and the house. We regretted not having requested a photo
with Poppy Salinger. Alas, the visit was
nonetheless a feast of art and not-too-distant history. I was
strongly affected in the presence of so many details from the early years of my
political memory. La Bastide Rose sent
me away emotionally spent but fulfilled.
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