LA BIBLIA DE RODES, A CATALAN MEDIEVAL MASTERPIECE

Today, The Grandma wants to talk about one of the most fascinating medieval works that we can consult and study: la Bíblia de Rodes.

Some monuments are built with stone. Others are created with parchment, ink and colour. At the Monastery of Sant Pere de Rodes, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, both forms of artistic expression once belonged to the same cultural and spiritual world.

The monastery's extraordinary Romanesque architecture demonstrated the technical knowledge and ambition of medieval builders. Its sculptural decoration, particularly the magnificent portal associated with the Master of Cabestany, transformed religious stories into expressive images carved in stone. But Sant Pere de Rodes also possessed another remarkable treasure: an illuminated Bible that ranks among the most important surviving manuscripts of Catalan Romanesque art.

Today, the Bible of Rodes is no longer in Catalunya. It is preserved at the Bibliothèque nationale de France in Paris, divided into four volumes, far from the monastery to which it once belonged. Its story is one of artistic brilliance, intellectual achievement, warfare, cultural appropriation and survival.

To understand the Bible of Rodes, we must first travel inland, to the Benedictine Monastery of Santa Maria de Ripoll. During the tenth and eleventh centuries, Ripoll became one of the most important centres of intellectual and artistic activity in medieval Catalunya. Its scriptorium was a place where manuscripts were copied, studied, decorated and preserved. Under the influence of Abad Oliba, one of the most significant religious and cultural figures of eleventh-century Catalunya, the monastery developed an extraordinary tradition of manuscript production.

Creating a Bible was a monumental undertaking. Before a single word could be written, animal skins had to be prepared and transformed into parchment or vellum. The pages had to be organised, ruled and prepared for writing. Scribes then copied the sacred texts by hand, using carefully formed letters and following established conventions. Illuminators and miniaturists added decorative initials, narrative scenes and complex visual compositions. This work required considerable technical knowledge, artistic ability, financial resources and time.  A manuscript was not simply a book. It was the product of an entire community of knowledge.

The Bible of Rodes is generally associated with this extraordinary intellectual environment, although the precise circumstances of its production and the execution of all its illustrations remain subjects of scholarly debate.

The Bible of Rodes was created during the first half of the eleventh century. Originally consisting of 566 vellum folios, it was written in Carolingian minuscule, a clear and elegant script that had developed during the Carolingian period. Its dimensions were impressive, and its pages contained biblical texts arranged in three columns. Yet its most extraordinary feature was its decoration.

The manuscript contains remarkable illustrations representing biblical episodes, human figures, animals, architectural settings and complex narrative scenes. Its artists used expressive lines, carefully arranged compositions and a rich palette of colours. Some illustrations are characterised by brown outlines enhanced with purple, red, green, blue, orange and yellow. Others employ more restrained graphic techniques. The result is not simply a decorated religious text. It is a visual interpretation of the Bible. The miniatures helped transform written narratives into images, allowing biblical stories to be understood, remembered and contemplated through art. In this sense, the manuscript belonged to the same artistic tradition that later filled Romanesque churches with paintings and sculptures.

The Bible was not only meant to be read. It was also meant to be seen. 

According to the historical tradition presented by Catalan heritage authorities, the Bible was associated with a gift from Abat Oliba to Sant Pere de Rodes on the occasion of the consecration of its church in 1022. However, its precise production history is more complicated than this traditional account suggests. Some scholars have proposed that different parts of the manuscript were illustrated at different times or even in different workshops. What is certain is that the Bible was at Sant Pere de Rodes by the twelfth century. A document concerning the monastery, dated 1130, was copied onto an unused page of the manuscript, providing important evidence of its connection with the abbey.

For centuries, this extraordinary book formed part of the monastery's cultural heritage. Its presence reminds us that medieval monasteries were not simply places of prayer and religious discipline. They were also centres of learning, artistic production, intellectual exchange and the preservation of knowledge. The monks belonged to a world in which books were precious objects, carefully produced and often preserved across generations. In an age long before printing, every manuscript represented an enormous investment of human labour. 

The artistic importance of the Bible of Rodes extended beyond the manuscript itself. Its illustrations belonged to a visual culture that influenced Romanesque painting and sculpture. Art historians have identified relationships between its iconography and works associated with Sant Pere de Rodes, including a painting of the Crucifixion discovered in the monastery's cloister. Parallels have also been proposed with sculpted capitals and scenes from the monumental Romanesque portal of Santa Maria de Ripoll. These connections reveal something fascinating about medieval art. The boundaries between artistic disciplines were not as rigid as we sometimes imagine. An image created on parchment could provide inspiration for a painter working on a church wall or a sculptor carving a stone capital. Artistic ideas circulated between monasteries, workshops and different materials. The same religious narrative could be expressed through ink, pigment, wood or stone.

In this world, the illuminated manuscript was not an isolated artistic object. It participated in a much larger visual tradition.

The history of the Bible of Rodes took a dramatic turn at the end of the seventeenth century. In 1693, during the conflicts between France and the Spanish Monarchy, French forces under the command of Noailles operated in Catalunya. During this period, the Bible was taken from the Monastery of Sant Pere de Rodes. Its removal was part of the wider history of warfare and the appropriation of cultural property. The manuscript subsequently entered French collections.

In 1740, the French royal library acquired a substantial collection of books and manuscripts associated with the Marshal of Noailles, including the Bible of Rodes. The manuscript eventually became part of the collections now preserved by the Bibliothèque nationale de France. It is catalogued as Latin 6. At some point after leaving Catalunya, the original codex was divided into four volumes. A book that had once existed as a single monumental object acquired a different physical form.

Its journey had changed not only its location, but also the circumstances in which it would be studied, classified and appreciated.

The Bible of Rodes presents a difficult historical paradox. Its removal from Catalunya was an act of appropriation connected with military conflict. Yet its preservation in a major library has also allowed generations of researchers to study one of the greatest surviving achievements of Catalan manuscript illumination. Both facts belong to its history. Recognising the importance of its preservation does not require us to ignore the circumstances of its removal. Nor does acknowledging its Catalan origins diminish its universal artistic value.

The manuscript belongs to the cultural history of medieval Catalonia, but its importance extends far beyond geographical borders. It is part of the shared history of European art, learning and religious culture. 

Today, the Bible can be studied in Paris and consulted through digital reproductions. Modern technology allows its illustrations to reach audiences who could never have imagined seeing such a precious manuscript. Nevertheless, its physical separation from Sant Pere de Rodes remains an essential part of its story. 

There is a remarkable parallel between the Bible of Rodes and the sculptures of the Master of Cabestany. Both were created within the artistic and religious culture of medieval Catalunya. Both became associated with Sant Pere de Rodes. Both were eventually removed from their original setting. And both acquired new functions and identities. The sculptures that once decorated a sacred architectural composition became fragments, collectors' objects or decorative elements.

The Bible that once belonged to a monastic community became a royal library manuscript and, later, a treasured item in a national collection. Their material existence continued, but the relationship with their original environment was transformed.  The Bible of Rodes is no longer experienced as it would have been by the medieval community that preserved it.

Today, it is a historical document, an artistic masterpiece, a subject of academic research and a symbol of cultural heritage. Its identity has changed over time. Yet the manuscript continues to preserve something extraordinary: the work of the scribes and artists who created it nearly a thousand years ago.

The story of Sant Pere de Rodes can be told through three extraordinary forms of human creativity. Its architecture reveals how medieval builders transformed a difficult mountainside into a monumental religious complex. Its sculptures demonstrate how artists such as the Master of Cabestany used stone to communicate sacred stories through expressive forms. And the Bible of Rodes shows how scribes and illuminators transformed parchment into an extraordinary instrument of knowledge and artistic imagination. Stone, sculpture and manuscript. Three different materials, three different artistic languages, but one cultural world. Together, they reveal the ambition, spirituality and intellectual richness of medieval Catalunya. They also remind us how vulnerable cultural heritage can become when the institutions that created and protected it decline or disappear.

Sant Pere de Rodes has survived centuries of abandonment, destruction and restoration. Its architecture still stands above the Mediterranean. Some of its sculptures are scattered across museums and collections. And one of its greatest manuscripts rests in Paris. They no longer share the same physical space. But history allows us to reconnect them.

The Bible of Rodes may be far from the monastery that gave it its name, but its pages continue to tell the story of the world that created it.

A thousand years of history, hundreds of kilometres of distance, and yet only a click away. So far away, and yet so close.

The manuscript may have left Catalunya centuries ago, but its stories, its colours and the memory of those who created it can now travel home without moving a single page.

More information: Biblia Sancti Petri Rodensis Vol.1-Vol.2-Vol.3-Vol.4

Un vast conjunt d'imatges relatives 

als llibres dels profetes, 
que Neuss considerà sense paral·lel 

en la miniatura medieval.

An extensive collection of images illustrating 

the books of the prophets, 
which Neuss considered unparalleled 

in medieval manuscript illumination.

Rosa Alcoy

SANT PERE DE RODES & THE MASTER OF CABESTANY

When you visit Sant Pere de Rodes, it is impossible not to be struck with awe by the sculptures found within the monastery. Not all of the original works remain -many were lost to looting- yet this does not diminish our appreciation for the greatness of those sculptors. They immortalized an art form that continues to move us today -an art with which, despite the centuries that have passed, we still feel a deep connection.

This, then, is the moment to speak of the Master of Cabestany -an artist about whom we know almost nothing, yet who left behind a unique and marvelous legacy.

Some artists become immortal through their names. Others achieve immortality through their works. The Master of Cabestany belongs to the second group.

We do not know his real name, where he was born, or precisely when he died. We know almost nothing about his personal life. Yet, nearly nine centuries after his artistic activity, his sculptures remain unmistakably recognisable. His elongated faces, prominent eyes, expressive hands and dramatic compositions reveal an extraordinary artistic personality. He was not simply carving stone. He was telling stories. And one of his most ambitious creations once decorated the magnificent Monastery of Sant Pere de Rodes, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea in Catalunya.

Today, much of that masterpiece has disappeared. Its surviving fragments tell a fascinating story about medieval creativity, the destruction of cultural heritage and the extraordinary ability of works of art to acquire new identities.

The Master of Cabestany was active during the second half of the twelfth century, when Romanesque art was flourishing across Western Europe. His modern name derives from a remarkable sculpted tympanum at the Church of Santa Maria de Cabestany, in Catalunya Nord. The tympanum, depicting scenes associated with the Virgin Mary, displays such distinctive characteristics that art historians have used it to  identify other works belonging to the same artistic tradition. Sculptures attributed to the master or his workshop have been identified across territories including Catalunya, Occitania, Navarre and Tuscany. This geographical distribution suggests a world of travelling craftsmen, circulating artistic models and religious institutions connected through cultural networks.

Medieval Europe was far less artistically isolated than we sometimes imagine. However, the identity of the Master of Cabestany remains an open question. Was he a single extraordinarily talented sculptor? Was he the leading figure of a workshop? How many hands contributed to the works traditionally attributed to him? Scholars continue to debate these questions. Perhaps the mystery is part of his fascination: we recognise the artistic language, but the person behind it remains hidden.

The sculptures associated with the Master of Cabestany possess an unmistakable expressive intensity. His figures are not always anatomically proportionate. Their heads may appear unusually large, their eyes deeply marked and their gestures exaggerated. But these apparent distortions serve a purpose. The artist was less concerned with reproducing the human body realistically than with communicating movement, emotion and spiritual meaning. His figures seem to speak, suffer, question and react. Their faces become instruments of narration.

In an age when religious sculpture served an important educational and devotional purpose, this visual language was particularly effective. Biblical stories could be communicated through gestures, expressions and carefully arranged scenes, reaching viewers regardless of their ability to read. The Master of Cabestany transformed stone into a powerful narrative medium.

Around 1160-1170, the Master of Cabestany and his workshop are believed to have created a magnificent sculpted marble portal for the Church of Sant Pere de Rodes. 

The monastery was already a prestigious Benedictine institution, closely associated with the cult of Saint Peter and the religious networks of medieval Europe. The portal was not simply an ornamental entrance. Its sculptural programme helped communicate the monastery's religious identity, spiritual authority and connection with the apostle. The placement of the sculptures was essential to their meaning. Each figure belonged to a larger composition. Each scene participated in a narrative conceived for a specific architectural and sacred environment.

Architecture and sculpture were not separate artistic disciplines. They formed a single visual language. The portal was therefore both a work of art and an expression of the monastery's identity.

One of the most fascinating aspects of the Master of Cabestany's work at Sant Pere de Rodes is his relationship with classical antiquity. Research has revealed that ancient Roman marble was reused in the creation of the portal. Some of these materials originated from quarries as distant as Carrara, in present-day Italy, and Proconnesus, in present-day Türkiye. Their history was already centuries old when medieval craftsmen began carving them again.

The sculptors did not merely imitate classical art. They transformed ancient materials and artistic references into a distinctly Romanesque visual language. Roman marble acquired a new purpose, a new meaning and a new identity. Stone that had once belonged to the ancient world became part of a Christian monument. This transformation reveals something essential about artistic creation: artists do not always begin with materials that have no history. Sometimes, they create something new by reinterpreting what previous generations have left behind.

The Master of Cabestany gave ancient stone another life. Centuries later, his own sculptures would undergo another transformation, although under very different circumstances. 

The history of Sant Pere de Rodes did not end with its medieval splendour. The monastery gradually declined, suffering the consequences of warfare, political instability and economic difficulties. The Benedictine community finally abandoned the site at the end of the eighteenth century. Without its original inhabitants and with increasingly limited protection, the buildings deteriorated. Architectural elements were removed, decorative stones disappeared and important works of art became scattered. The magnificent Romanesque portal suffered particularly devastating losses.

During the nineteenth century, much of its sculptural decoration was dismantled and dispersed. Some fragments entered private collections. Others were reused in houses and rural properties in nearby communities, including La Selva de Mar, El Port de la Selva and Llançà. Pieces originally conceived as sacred sculpture could become domestic ornaments, architectural decorations or practical objects. Some were even reused as boundary markers or in cemetery settings. The monastery lost part of its artistic identity, while its sculptures began entirely different lives.

What happens when a sculpture is removed from the place for which it was created? Consider a carved fragment from the portal of Sant Pere de Rodes. In the twelfth century, it formed part of a sacred architectural composition. Its function was decorative, religious and communicative. Its meaning depended upon its relationship with the monastery, its iconographic programme and the people who encountered it. Now imagine that, centuries later, someone removed that same fragment and placed it in a private garden. Its original function disappeared. Its religious significance was replaced by a new ornamental, practical or sentimental value. Its identity changed. It was no longer perceived primarily as part of a medieval sculptural narrative, but as an attractive stone, an antique object or a decorative possession. When a work of art is removed from its original context, it does not simply change location. It acquires a new function, a new meaning and a new identity. Yet something remains. The material still carries traces of its previous existence. The sculptor's marks survive. The artistic language remains recognisable. The stone continues to preserve evidence of the world in which it was created. And sometimes, centuries later, historians and archaeologists can recover that forgotten history. The sculpture may never regain its original function, but its past can become visible again.

The exhibition Sant Pere de Rodes and the Master of Cabestany: The Creation of a Myth, held at the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya (MNAC) in Barcelona in 2026, brought renewed attention to this extraordinary artistic heritage.

Through sculptures, documents and historical research, the exhibition explored the creation, destruction and dispersal of the monastery's monumental portal. It also demonstrated the  importance of studying individual fragments as parts of a lost architectural and artistic whole. Each surviving piece provides clues about the original composition. Each rediscovered sculpture helps reconstruct a history that once seemed irretrievably lost. The task is not simply to identify beautiful medieval objects. It is to understand the relationships between those objects, the architecture that contained them and the society that gave them meaning. Recovering their history is therefore an act of cultural memory.

There is something deeply moving about the history of the Master of Cabestany and Sant Pere de Rodes. An anonymous sculptor reused ancient Roman marble to create a Christian masterpiece. Centuries later, that masterpiece was dismantled, and its fragments were transformed into objects with entirely different purposes.

Today, museums, historians and researchers attempt to recover their origins and explain their significance. The same stone has belonged to different worlds. Its material has endured, while its functions, meanings and identities have changed. And perhaps this is one of the most important lessons that the history of art can teach us. A work of art is never merely an object. It belongs to a place, a historical moment, a community and a network of ideas. When those relationships are broken, something essential is lost, even if the object itself survives.

The Master of Cabestany remains anonymous, but his sculptures continue to speak. They tell us about medieval faith, artistic innovation, the legacy of classical antiquity and the fragility of cultural heritage. Above all, they remind us that preserving a work of art means more than preserving its physical material. It means protecting the history that gives it meaning.

In the twelfth century, an unknown sculptor transformed ancient marble into one of the most extraordinary masterpieces of Catalan Romanesque art. His name has been forgotten, but his artistic language has survived.

The stones of Sant Pere de Rodes have lived many lives. Our responsibility is to ensure that their first life is never forgotten.

More information: MNAC

We have no right whatever to touch them. 

They are not ours.

John Ruskin

SANT PERE DE RODES, BUILT BETWEEN MOUNTAINS & SEA

After spending a few days in Oslo and Paris, Claire Fontaine and The Grandma
returned to Barcelona just in time to grab their scuba gear and head off to El Port de la Selva, where Tina Picotes was waiting for them.

Diving in October is a delight: you avoid the crowds, benefit from greater safety -since there are fewer recreational boats around- and get to enjoy the marvelous treasure that is the Mediterranean seabed along this stretch of the Costa Brava.

One of their steadfast traditions before any dive is to go for a walk and get into shape. There's no better way to do this than by hiking up to the monastery of Sant Pere de Rodes via the path through the Vall de la Santa Creu -taking in a unique and spectacular natural setting while wondering, time and again, why that monastery is there and how they ever managed to transport all the materials needed to build it.

To this day, that question remains a mystery. But then again, not every question needs an answer -after all, what would our lives and our history be without a little bit of intrigue?

There are buildings that belong to a landscape, and others that seem to challenge it. The Monastery of Sant Pere de Rodes, standing on the slopes of the Verdera mountains, above the Mediterranean Sea, appears to do both.

At first sight, its location raises an unavoidable question: Why would anyone decide to build such an extraordinary monastery in such a difficult place?

Why carry enormous quantities of stone up a mountain? Why construct walls, vaults, columns and cloisters on steep, rocky terrain? Why choose a site exposed to the wind, far from the comforts of the valleys?

To understand Sant Pere de Rodes, we must temporarily forget our modern ideas of convenience and enter the medieval world, where geography, religion, political authority and architecture were inseparable.

In medieval Christianity, mountains possessed a powerful symbolic meaning. They were places of revelation, contemplation and spiritual encounter.

Moses received the Law on Mount Sinai. The Transfiguration of Christ took place on a mountain. Throughout Christian history, hermits and religious communities sought solitude in elevated and remote places.

A monastery built on a mountainside could therefore express more than a desire for isolation. It could represent the separation of monastic life from worldly distractions and the search for spiritual elevation.

Sant Pere de Rodes fits naturally into this religious tradition. Yet its location was not simply a matter of spirituality. The monastery occupies a commanding position overlooking the northern coast of the Alt Empordà, the Mediterranean and the surrounding mountains. This landscape was not an empty wilderness. It belonged to a region crossed by maritime connections, political interests and religious networks.

From this perspective, its apparent isolation becomes something different: a privileged position from which a religious institution could establish its presence within the territory. The monastery was not merely hidden in the mountains. It was also a monument that proclaimed its existence. Who decided to build it? The origins of Sant Pere de Rodes remain partly mysterious. Archaeological evidence indicates occupation before the great medieval monastery was constructed. By the ninth century, documents already referred to a small monastic establishment in the area.

Its transformation into a powerful Benedictine abbey took place during the tenth century. Two figures were particularly important: Tasi, a nobleman who supported the religious community, and Gausfred, Count of Empúries. Through donations, privileges and political protection, the monastery acquired the resources necessary to undertake an ambitious building programme. The abbey achieved independent status in 944, and the monumental church that survives today was constructed during the tenth and eleventh centuries. This development reflected more than religious devotion.

For the counts of Empúries, supporting a prestigious monastery strengthened their authority, reinforced their territorial influence and associated their dynasty with an important spiritual institution. In the medieval world, building a monastery could be an act of faith and an expression of political power at the same time. Sant Pere de Rodes was both.

Perhaps the most extraordinary aspect of Sant Pere de Rodes is not simply where it stands, but how medieval builders managed to construct it. The terrain offered very little naturally level ground. Instead of forcing the entire complex onto a single horizontal platform, the builders adapted the architecture to the mountain by creating terraces at different levels.

The church, cloisters and monastic buildings were organised around the uneven topography. The mountain was not merely an obstacle to overcome. It became part of the architectural structure. This required an exceptional understanding of the terrain, careful planning and considerable technical skill. Before the walls could rise, the builders had to prepare foundations, adapt the rocky ground, create stable platforms and organise access for workers and materials. Every architectural decision had consequences. The monastery could not simply be designed independently of its location. Its architecture had to emerge from the mountain itself.

Today, we admire the beauty of the monastery's masonry, columns and monumental spaces. But behind that beauty lies another story: the physical labour required to create them. How many hands were needed to transport the stone? How many journeys were made along mountain paths? How many hours were spent cutting, shaping and positioning the building materials?

The surviving architecture reveals the use of stones of different sizes, carefully dressed blocks for important structural elements and reused architectural materials. Local stone would have reduced the need for long-distance transport, although the precise origins and routes of every building material cannot always be established. The construction process would have depended on skilled stonemasons, builders, carpenters and labourers, supported by systems of transport and lifting appropriate to the period. Animal power, human strength, ropes, wooden scaffolding and lifting devices were among the resources available to medieval builders. We cannot reconstruct every movement of every stone at Sant Pere de Rodes, but we can appreciate the immense logistical effort represented by the surviving buildings. A monastery of this scale was not the achievement of one individual. It was the result of organised labour, accumulated knowledge and sustained economic investment over generations. Behind every column and every wall were people whose names history has largely forgotten.

Sant Pere de Rodes was never an entirely isolated monument. Nearby stood the settlement of Santa Creu de Rodes, whose inhabitants supported the religious community through commerce, crafts and other activities. Above the monastery rose the Castle of Sant Salvador de Verdera, associated with the defence and control of this strategically important territory. Together, these three places illustrate the organisation of medieval feudal society: those who prayed, those who worked and those who fought.

The monastery's position therefore had several meanings. It expressed religious devotion, but also political authority. It offered relative separation from ordinary life, while remaining connected to a network of economic activity. It occupied a difficult site, yet one with considerable symbolic and strategic value. Its location was not simply an architectural inconvenience. It was part of its identity.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Sant Pere de Rodes is that its builders did not choose the easiest solution. They chose to create something monumental in a landscape that demanded extraordinary effort. And that decision tells us something essential about medieval architecture. Buildings were not always designed primarily to satisfy practical needs. They could also communicate beliefs, ambitions and ideas about the relationship between humanity, nature and the divine.

Sant Pere de Rodes transformed a mountainside into a place of worship, pilgrimage and power. Its stones remind us that architecture is not only the art of constructing buildings. It is also the art of giving meaning to a place. The mountain was there long before the monastery. The achievement of its builders was to make the two seem inseparable.

More information: Museu d'Història de Catalunya (MHCAT)

La natura és indissociable de l’art.

Nature is inseparable from art.

MNAC

I AM SORRY [...] DEAR PARIS IS BURNING AFTER ALL

I write to give word the war is over

Send my cinders home to mother

They gave me a medal for my valor

Leaden trumpets spit the soot of power.

They say, "I'm on your side when nobody is, 'cause nobody is

Come sit right here and sleep while I slip poison in your ear."

We are waiting on a telegram to give us news of the fall

I am sorry to report, dear Paris is burning after all

We have taken to the streets in open rejoice, revolting

We are dancing a black waltz, fair Paris is burning after all.

Enclosed in this letter, there's a picture

Black and white for your refrigerator

Sticks and stones have made me smarter

It's words that cut me under my armor.

They say, "I'm on your side when nobody is, 'cause nobody is

Come sit right here and sleep while I slip poison in your ear."

We are waiting on a telegram to give us news of the fall

I am sorry to report, dear Paris is burning after all

We have taken to the streets in open rejoice, revolting

We are dancing a black waltz, fair Paris is burning after all.

Dance, poor people, dance and drown

Dance fair Paris to the ground

Dance, poor people, dance and drown

Dance fair Paris, ashes now.

More information: The Guardian

Dance, poor people, dance and drown

Dance fair Paris to the ground

Dance, poor people, dance and drown

Dance fair Paris, ashes now.

St. Vicent

FRANCE... ET L'APPAREIL SANGLANT DE LA DESTRUCTION!

Yesterday evening, Joseph de Ca'th Lon, Claire Fontaine, and The Grandma enjoyed the classic French women's football match between PSG and OL. It wasn't a great game, but the experience of being at the Parc des Princes -and getting to see the Northern Star play for a few minutes- made it all worthwhile. 

On their way back to the hotel, the three friends encountered a scene that was nightmarish, surreal, and unacceptable in a democratic, rational country.

The news they have read today regarding the riots in various French cities -especially in Paris, Limoges, and Lyon- brought to mind authors as diverse as Charles Baudelaire and George Orwell, all pointing to a common truth: nothing justifies gratuitous violence, vandalism, looting, or the destruction of cultural heritage. Nothing justifies it. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing...

Sans cesse à mes côtés s'agite le Démon;
Il nage autour de moi comme un air impalpable;
Je l'avale et le sens qui brûle mon poumon
Et l'emplit d'un désir éternel et coupable.

Parfois il prend, sachant mon grand amour de l'Art,
La forme de la plus séduisante des femmes,
Et, sous de spécieux prétextes de cafard,
Accoutume ma lèvre à des philtres infâmes.

Il me conduit ainsi, loin du regard de Dieu,
Haletant et brisé de fatigue, au milieu
Des plaines de l'Ennui, profondes et désertes,

Et jette dans mes yeux pleins de confusion
Des vêtements souillés, des blessures ouvertes,
Et l'appareil sanglant de la Destruction!

Ceaselessly, the Demon stirs at my side;

He swims around me like an intangible air;

I inhale him, and feel him burning within my lungs,

Filling them with an eternal, guilty desire.

Sometimes -knowing my deep love for Art-

He assumes the form of the most seductive woman,

And, under the specious guise of melancholy,

Accustoms my lips to vile, intoxicating draughts.

Thus he leads me, far from the gaze of God,

Gasping for breath and broken with fatigue, into the midst

Of the plains of Ennui -vast, deep, and desolate-

And casts before my bewildered eyes

Soiled garments, gaping wounds,

And the bloody apparatus of Destruction!

Charles Baudelaire

More information: Poetry Verse

There will be no art, no literature, no science… 

There will be no distinction between beauty and ugliness. 

There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. 

All competing pleasures will be destroyed.

George Orwell

CÉLINE DION, VOIX D'UNE FEMME ET ÂME D'UNE LANGUE

Musings of The Grandma...

Il y a des voix que l'on découvre et que l'on oublie. Et puis, il y a celles qui nous accompagnent toute une vie.

Le 19 juin 1991, à Montréal, au Québec, j'ai eu le privilège d'entendre Céline Dion sur scène pour la première fois. Elle était jeune, j'étais encore mineure, et je ne pouvais pas imaginer que cette chanteuse québécoise deviendrait un jour l'une des plus grandes voix de la musique internationale. Ce soir-là, ce n'était pas une superstar mondiale que je découvrais. C'était une artiste dont la voix possédait déjà cette force extraordinaire, cette capacité de transformer une chanson en émotion. Trente-cinq ans plus tard, je me souviens encore de cette rencontre musicale.

Née à Charlemagne, au Québec, en 1968, Céline Dion appartient à une culture où la langue française représente bien davantage qu'un moyen de communication. Elle est une mémoire, une identité, une manière de comprendre et de raconter le monde. Avant de devenir une star internationale, Céline était une jeune chanteuse francophone. Sa victoire à l'Eurovision en 1988, où elle représentait la Suisse avec Ne partez pas sans moi, annonçait déjà une carrière exceptionnelle. Puis vinrent les grandes chansons anglophones. Beauty and the Beast, When I Fall in Love, The Power of Love et, bien entendu, My Heart Will Go On, immortalisée par le film Titanic, contribuèrent à faire d'elle une icône mondiale.

Je ne conteste ni la beauté de ces chansons ni les qualités vocales extraordinaires qu'elles exigent. Pourtant, à mes oreilles, elles appartiennent souvent à une esthétique musicale plus commerciale, construite autour des grandes ballades de la pop internationale. La Céline Dion qui me touche profondément est ailleurs. Elle chante en français.

La rencontre entre Céline Dion et Jean-Jacques Goldman constitue, selon moi, l'un des moments les plus importants de sa carrière artistique. Avec D'eux, publié en 1995, puis S'il suffisait d'aimer, en 1998, Céline trouve un univers où sa puissance vocale rencontre une écriture plus intime, plus narrative et profondément humaine. Goldman ne lui offre pas simplement des mélodies. Il lui donne des personnages, des contradictions, des souvenirs, des blessures et des espoirs. Dans Pour que tu m'aimes encore, l'amour devient une lutte contre l'oubli et l'éloignement. Dans Je sais pas, la fragilité se cache derrière une apparente force de caractère. Dans On ne change pas, l'identité personnelle se construit autour de l'enfant que nous avons été et que nous continuons à porter en nous. Dans Zora sourit, la chanson aborde le racisme, les préjugés et la nécessité de reconnaître l'humanité de l'autre. Et dans S'il suffisait d'aimer, l'amour dépasse la relation individuelle pour devenir une réflexion sur notre capacité à transformer le monde.

Mais parmi toutes les chansons francophones de Céline Dion, deux occupent une place particulière dans mon cœur: La mémoire d'Abraham et Je ne vous oublie pas. La première, écrite par Jean-Jacques Goldman, est une méditation bouleversante sur la mémoire, l'exil, la foi et l'héritage que les générations transmettent à celles qui leur succèdent. Elle possède une profondeur presque spirituelle, comme une prière adressée à ceux qui nous ont précédés. La seconde, écrite par Jacques Veneruso, parle d'une autre forme de mémoire: celle de la reconnaissance, de la fidélité et des liens humains qui résistent au passage du temps. L'une évoque la mémoire collective ; l'autre, la mémoire affective. Toutes deux nous rappellent que l'oubli est peut-être l'une des plus grandes fragilités humaines. Ces chansons ne cherchent pas uniquement à impressionner par la voix. Elles racontent quelque chose. C'est précisément ce que j'aime dans la chanson francophone: cette tradition où les paroles ne sont pas un simple accompagnement de la musique, mais une véritable œuvre littéraire.

La richesse du répertoire francophone de Céline Dion ne se limite pas à Goldman. Avec Luc Plamondon, auteur québécois et figure majeure de la chanson francophone, elle explore des sentiments complexes dans des œuvres comme L'amour existe encore ou Ziggy (Un garçon pas comme les autres). Avec Le blues du businessman, issu de l'univers de Starmania, elle s'inscrit dans une tradition où la chanson devient théâtre, critique sociale et réflexion sur les contradictions de la réussite. Mais l'un des projets les plus intéressants de sa discographie demeure, à mes yeux, D'elles, publié en 2007. Cet album donne la parole à des écrivaines, des poétesses et des intellectuelles francophones. Françoise Dorin, Nina Bouraoui, Marie Laberge, Jovette-Alice Bernier, Lise Payette, Denise Bombardier, Janette Bertrand ou encore George Sand participent, par leurs textes, à cet hommage à la condition féminine. Le résultat dépasse largement le cadre d'un simple album de chansons d'amour. Il devient une exploration de la mémoire des femmes, de leurs désirs, de leurs blessures, de leur liberté et de leur place dans la société. Dans D'elles, Céline ne chante pas seulement des femmes. Elle leur donne une voix. Et cette distinction me semble essentielle.

Pendant plusieurs années, la maladie a éloigné Céline Dion de la scène. Atteinte du syndrome de la personne raide, une maladie neurologique rare, elle a dû affronter une épreuve particulièrement cruelle pour une artiste dont la voix et le corps constituent les principaux instruments de travail. Comme beaucoup de personnes qui l'admirent, j'ai fini par craindre de ne jamais la revoir chanter devant un public. Puis vint le 26 juillet 2024. Paris. Les Jeux olympiques. La tour Eiffel. Et cette voix. En interprétant L'Hymne à l'amour d'Édith Piaf, sur des paroles de Piaf et une musique de Marguerite Monnot, Céline Dion renouait avec l'une des plus belles traditions de la chanson française. Mais ce soir-là, elle ne chantait pas seulement l'amour. Elle chantait aussi, à mes yeux, la persévérance, la fragilité humaine et le courage de revenir à ce qui donne un sens à notre existence. J'avoue avoir pleuré en l'écoutant. Non pas par nostalgie, mais parce que je pensais avoir perdu à jamais la possibilité de retrouver cette voix sur scène. Et soudain, elle était là.

Aujourd'hui, Céline Dion est de retour devant son public parisien. Après des années d'incertitude, la chanteuse québécoise retrouve les applaudissements, les lumières et cette relation si particulière qui unit une artiste à celles et ceux qui l'écoutent.

La nuit dernière, Joseph, Claire et moi avons eu l'honneur d'assister à son concert à Nanterre. Trente-six ans de musique, de souvenirs, de changements et de vies traversées. Mais une même voix.

Céline avait interprété deux œuvres particulièrement surprenantes: Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This), du groupe Eurythmics, et Ebben? Ne andrò lontana, l'aria de l'opéra La Wally d'Alfredo Catalani. Deux univers musicaux presque opposés: la froideur hypnotique de la musique électronique britannique des années 1980 et l'intensité dramatique de l'opéra italien du XIXe siècle. Et pourtant, une même voix capable de les réunir. 

Si je reste profondément attachée à son répertoire francophone, je dois reconnaître qu'entendre Céline interpréter Sweet Dreams sur scène serait une expérience extraordinaire. Quant à Ebben? Ne andrò lontana, quelle audace de s'aventurer dans un répertoire aussi exigeant! C'est peut-être là que réside l'une des plus grandes qualités d'une interprète: ne pas se contenter de chanter des notes, mais donner à chaque œuvre une nouvelle existence. 

Pourquoi avoir choisi d'écrire cet hommage en français? Parce que cette langue fait partie intégrante de l'histoire que je voulais raconter. Céline Dion a conquis le monde en anglais, mais c'est en français que je retrouve le plus profondément la chanteuse que j'ai découverte à Montréal. Je retrouve la richesse des textes de Goldman, l'imagination de Plamondon, la sensibilité des écrivaines de D'elles et l'héritage immense d'Édith Piaf. Je retrouve aussi cette conviction que la musique ne se mesure pas uniquement au nombre de disques vendus ou à la puissance d'une voix. Elle se mesure à ce qu'elle est capable de nous faire ressentir, comprendre et transmettre. Les chansons anglophones de Céline Dion ont accompagné des millions de personnes à travers le monde. Ses chansons francophones, elles, racontent à mes yeux quelque chose de plus intime: une culture, une mémoire et une certaine idée de la poésie.

En 1991, à Montréal, j'ai découvert une voix. En 2024, à Paris, j'ai retrouvé une émotion que je croyais perdue. Parce qu'on peut devenir une voix universelle sans jamais cesser d'appartenir à une langue.

Merci, Céline. Et bon retour sur scène.

More information: Céline Dion

Je serai un Québécois-Canadien. 
Je viens du Québec, 
et chaque fois que je me rends dans un pays, 
je le précise. Ce sont mes racines, mes origines, 
et c’est ce qu’il y a de plus important pour moi.

I'll be a Quebecker-Canadian. 

I'm from Quebec, and every time I go to a country, 

I say that. It's my roots, my origins, 

and it's the most important thing to me.

Céline Dion

THE LOUVRE, WHEN ART SURVIVES FAR FROM HOME

Today, Joseph de Ca'th Lon, Claire Fontaine, and The Grandma have visited the Louvre. It does not matter how many times you visit Paris; a trip to the Louvre is a must. No matter how often you come to the City of Light, you will never have enough time to take in all the art on display in this impressive museum.

A museum is a fascinating place where history draws you in, allowing you to travel through time and space simply by moving from one room to the next. 

Today, for a few fleeting moments, Joseph has felt like Sant Jordi, Claire like La Belle Ferronnière, and The Grandma like Isabel de Requesens, moments during which The Grandma herself has reflected on the importance of museums, as well as the universality and democratization of art.

Musings of The Grandma...

The Louvre is much more than one of the world's most celebrated museums. It is a remarkable journey through human civilisation, a place where thousands of years of artistic creation coexist beneath the roof of a former royal palace.

Yet walking through its galleries raises a question that goes far beyond artistic admiration: how much of the world's cultural heritage survives today because it was taken far away from the place where it was created? The answer is neither simple nor comfortable.

European museums such as the Louvre, the British Museum or Berlin's great archaeological collections preserve extraordinary works from civilisations whose political borders, institutions and historical circumstances have changed dramatically over the centuries. Some objects arrived through archaeological expeditions, purchases or donations. Others were acquired during colonial domination, military campaigns or periods of profound political inequality. Some were removed illegally, while others were transported to protect them from destruction. Their histories are different, and treating them all alike would be a mistake. Nevertheless, they share one extraordinary characteristic: they have survived. And survival, particularly when we are speaking about cultural heritage, should never be taken for granted.

The destruction of ancient Palmyra in Syria offers one of the most painful reminders of how vulnerable cultural heritage can be. During the Syrian Civil War, the Islamic State deliberately destroyed monuments that had survived for nearly two thousand years. Temples, funerary towers and other archaeological treasures were reduced to rubble. Their destruction represented something greater than the loss of beautiful architecture. It was an attack on historical memory itself. Palmyra reminds us that civilisations do not disappear only when their people die or their political institutions collapse. They can also disappear when the material evidence of their existence is systematically destroyed.  This raises an uncomfortable hypothetical question. What might have happened to certain ancient objects now preserved in European museums if they had remained in regions subsequently devastated by war? Some might have survived. Others might have been destroyed, stolen or sold on the illegal antiquities market. We cannot know. But acknowledging that uncertainty does not mean defending colonialism or historical plunder. It simply means recognising that the history of an artwork does not end with the circumstances of its removal. Its survival becomes part of that history too.

For a Catalan visitor, this question is not merely theoretical. Walking through The Met Cloisters in New York and suddenly encountering the Romanesque architecture of Sant Miquel de Cuixà is an extraordinary emotional experience. There, thousands of kilometres from the Pyrenees, stands a reconstruction incorporating original twelfth-century columns and capitals from one of the great monuments of Catalan Romanesque art. Their presence in America is the result of a long history of political upheaval, the dispersal of monastic property after the French Revolution and the subsequent international art market. The monastery suffered abandonment, architectural deterioration and the sale of many of its sculptural elements. Today, part of that heritage survives in New York, while other elements remain in or have returned to Cuixà.

The experience produces contradictory emotions: admiration for the beauty of the collection, gratitude for its preservation, and a profound sadness at seeing a fragment of one's cultural identity so far from home. The same feeling can arise when discovering Catalan Romanesque painting in American collections, including the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. These works were not originally created as isolated museum objects. They belonged to churches, monasteries and communities. Their colours, religious imagery and architectural surroundings formed part of a shared cultural landscape. Once removed, they acquired a new existence. They became works of art displayed to an international public, but they also lost part of their original context. And perhaps this is the central paradox of museum preservation: an artwork can survive physically while losing part of the world that gave it meaning.

Another remarkable example is the Bible of Rodes, a magnificent medieval illuminated manuscript associated with the monastery of Sant Pere de Rodes, in Catalunya, and now preserved in the Bibliothèque nationale de France in Paris. Its history reminds us that the movement of cultural treasures across borders is not exclusively a consequence of modern colonialism. Wars, dynastic ambitions, political revolutions, religious transformations and the activities of collectors have been reshaping Europe's artistic geography for centuries. A manuscript may survive because it was carefully preserved in a foreign library. Yet its cultural significance remains inseparable from the community and historical environment in which it was produced or used. Preservation and belonging are not necessarily opposing principles. Both deserve recognition.

It would be misleading to imagine that the destruction of cultural heritage is a tragedy belonging only to Africa or the Middle East. Europe has experienced the same devastation. The Spanish Civil War and the Second World War demonstrated how quickly centuries of artistic and architectural achievement could disappear beneath bombs, fire and deliberate destruction.

In Catalunya, the ruins of Corbera d'Ebre remain a powerful testimony to the Battle of the Ebre in 1938. Its shattered buildings remind us that war destroys more than lives and infrastructure. It also destroys the physical spaces in which collective memory is preserved. 

During the Second World War, European museums and cultural institutions faced similar challenges. Collections were hidden, transported, dispersed or sheltered underground to protect them from aerial bombardment and military occupation. At the same time, Nazi Germany systematically looted works of art, particularly from Jewish families and occupied territories. These experiences show why it is essential to distinguish between safeguarding cultural heritage and appropriating it. One seeks to ensure its survival. The other deprives people and communities of what belongs to them.

Beyond questions of ownership, restitution and preservation, there is another essential dimension to the existence of great museums: the universality of art. Art belongs to particular cultures, traditions and historical circumstances, but its ability to inspire, challenge and move people transcends geographical borders. We do not need to be Egyptian to admire an ancient Egyptian sculpture, Greek to appreciate classical architecture, or Catalan to be moved by the extraordinary beauty of Romanesque painting. Every civilisation has developed its own artistic language, but the human desire to create, communicate and leave something behind is universal. This is perhaps one of the greatest achievements of institutions such as the Louvre or the British Museum. Within their walls, visitors can travel through thousands of years of human history simply by moving from one gallery to another. Not everyone has the financial means, physical ability or opportunity to travel around the world. Yet a great museum can bring distant civilisations within reach, allowing people to discover cultures they might otherwise never encounter. In this sense, museums are not merely repositories of valuable objects. They are extraordinary educational institutions, places where curiosity becomes knowledge and cultural differences become opportunities for understanding.

Private collectors have also played an important role in the history of art. Throughout the centuries, individuals have acquired, protected and studied works of art, sometimes preserving objects that might otherwise have disappeared. Many have eventually donated their collections to public institutions, transforming private passions into shared cultural treasures. Others have chosen to retain their collections privately, exercising the rights associated with legitimate ownership. Both realities form part of the history of collecting, although the public accessibility of cultural heritage remains an important consideration. Ownership carries rights, but it can also inspire a sense of responsibility towards future generations. After all, a painting may belong legally to one individual, but its artistic and historical significance can extend far beyond its owner's lifetime.

The British approach to free admission to the permanent collections of many major national museums is particularly admirable. At the British Museum, the National Gallery or the Victoria and Albert Museum, visitors can explore extraordinary collections without purchasing a general admission ticket. Special exhibitions may require payment, but the principle behind free access to permanent collections is profoundly democratic. It recognises that the opportunity to experience art should not depend entirely on personal wealth. A student, a pensioner, a family or someone simply seeking a moment of inspiration can enter a museum and encounter the artistic achievements of humanity. Art becomes part of everyday life rather than an occasional luxury. And perhaps this is the most beautiful expression of the universal museum: a place where the achievements of different civilisations can be appreciated by people from every background. Free admission also allows visitors to develop a different relationship with art. One does not need to spend an entire day exploring every gallery to justify the price of a ticket. Sometimes, visiting a museum simply means contemplating a single painting, discovering an unfamiliar civilisation or finding a moment of beauty in an ordinary afternoon. Of course, universal accessibility does not resolve the difficult questions surrounding the origins of museum collections. Nor should it be used to dismiss legitimate demands for restitution. But it reminds us that cultural heritage has a public dimension that deserves protection alongside historical justice.

Art has roots, but it should also have wings. Its origins deserve respect, its history deserves honesty, and its beauty deserves to be shared.

Today, an increasing number of countries and communities are requesting the return of artworks removed during earlier historical periods. Many of these claims are legitimate, supported by historical evidence, cultural rights and the desire to recover objects that form an essential part of collective identity. A country's present political stability, however, is only one factor in considering restitution. The circumstances of acquisition, the rights of the original communities, conservation conditions and the wishes of those concerned must also be taken into account. The discussion should not become a competition between those who claim ownership and those who claim to have ensured survival. Museums have played an extraordinary role in preserving, restoring, studying and sharing the artistic achievements of humanity. Their contribution deserves recognition. But preservation does not automatically establish a permanent right of ownership, just as historical injustice does not erase the conservation work carried out over generations. Perhaps the future lies in greater international cooperation: restitution where appropriate, long-term loans, shared research, travelling exhibitions and conservation partnerships that allow cultural heritage to reconnect with its origins. Above all, it requires listening to the communities whose histories these objects represent.

The Louvre is a magnificent place to contemplate the creativity of humanity. But it is also a place to reflect on the complicated journeys that works of art have undertaken before reaching the museum walls. Every sculpture, manuscript or painting has two histories: the history of its creation and the history of its survival. Sometimes those histories are beautiful. Sometimes they are painful. And sometimes they are both.

As a Catalan, seeing a piece of my country's Romanesque heritage in New York or Boston can inspire admiration and melancholy in equal measure. I am grateful that these works have survived. But I also understand the desire to see them reunited with the landscapes and communities from which they came. These feelings are not contradictory. They are two expressions of the same conviction: cultural heritage matters because it connects us with those who lived before us.

The ultimate question should therefore be not only who owns a work of art, but who is responsible for ensuring that it survives, that its history is told truthfully, and that future generations can continue to recognise themselves in it. 

Because saving an artwork means preserving an object. But respecting its origins means preserving its memory.

More information: Musée du Louvre

Thus today, as always, 

art knows no national boundaries.

John F. Kennedy