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
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, Claireet 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.
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,
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.
Today, while Claire Fontaine, Joseph de Ca'th Lon and The Grandma are spending some time in Paris, they remember the women whose work has sustained France for centuries.
Not the queens who lived in magnificent palaces, nor the aristocratic ladies whose portraits hang in museums, but the millions of anonymous women who cultivated the land, raised animals, harvested crops, preserved food, and kept rural communities alive.
Women whose names rarely appear in history books. Women whose hands shaped the countryside. Women without whom the history of France would be impossible to understand.
October 15 is the International Day of Rural Women, established by the United Nations to recognise the essential contribution of rural women to agriculture, food security, economic development, and the preservation of communities. It is also an opportunity to remember that the territory we now call France has never been culturally homogeneous.
Long before the consolidation of the modern French state, its lands were home to different peoples, languages, traditions, and historical identities. Bretons, Occitans, Catalans, Basques, Alsatians, Normans, Provençals, Corsicans, Flemings, and many others developed their own relationships with the land. And in all these societies, rural women played an indispensable role.
In Brittany, women worked on small farms, cared for livestock, cultivated vegetables, and participated in the production and sale of dairy products. Their daily lives were closely connected to a landscape shaped by the Atlantic Ocean, harsh winds, and agricultural traditions. They also helped transmit Breton songs, stories, customs, and the Breton language through family and community life.
In Occitania, women worked among vineyards, wheat fields, orchards, and pastures. From Gascony to Languedoc and the Auvergne, rural life reflected an extraordinary diversity of landscapes and traditions. Occitan-speaking women contributed to the preservation of a culture whose language had once produced one of medieval Europe's richest literary traditions.
In Northern Catalonia, the Catalan-speaking territories incorporated into France in the seventeenth century, women cultivated vineyards, olive groves, orchards, and vegetable gardens. From the Roussillon plain to the valleys of the Pyrenees, their agricultural work helped sustain communities while family traditions, songs, recipes, and the Catalan language passed from one generation to another.
In the French Basque Country, women played important roles in family farms, known as baserriak, caring for animals, cultivating the land, and participating in rural markets. The Basque farmhouse was more than a place of work. It was a centre of family identity and cultural continuity, where the Basque language, Euskara, could survive through everyday use.
In Alsace, women worked among vineyards, cereal fields, and vegetable gardens, contributing to a rural economy shaped by the Rhine valley and centuries of cultural exchange between French-speaking and German-speaking worlds.
In Normandy, women were particularly important in dairy farming, livestock care, and the production and marketing of agricultural goods. Butter, cream, cheese, and apples became characteristic products of a region whose rural prosperity depended on the work of entire families.
In Provence, women cultivated olives, grapes, vegetables, and aromatic plants. Their knowledge of seasonal crops, local markets, food preservation, and traditional cooking helped shape one of Europe's most recognisable regional food cultures.
In Corsica, rural women contributed to mountain agriculture, livestock farming, chestnut production, and the preservation of local knowledge in communities often separated by difficult terrain.
And in Flanders, Burgundy, Picardy, Lorraine, the Limousin, and countless other territories, women performed the same essential task: ensuring that the land could feed the people.
Their experiences were not identical. Their languages, customs, and agricultural practices differed enormously. But they shared a common struggle. They worked, produced, organised, and cared for their families in societies that frequently refused to recognise them as independent economic actors.
For centuries, agricultural work was largely represented as a masculine activity. Land ownership, inheritance, professional authority, and public recognition were frequently associated with men. Women, however, worked alongside them. They planted and harvested crops, milked animals, managed poultry, maintained vegetable gardens, prepared food, sold produce, and often kept farms functioning when husbands or sons were absent.
During wars, epidemics, economic crises, and periods of migration, their responsibilities could become even greater. Yet their work was often described merely as helping their husbands. This apparently innocent expression concealed a profound inequality. They were not simply helping. They were working. They were producing. They were sustaining the agricultural economy. And frequently, they were doing so without independent income, professional status, or adequate social protection.
In France, the legal recognition of women farmers progressed remarkably slowly. It was not until 1980 that the status of co-exploitante offered greater recognition of women participating in the management of farms. Further reforms in 1985, 1999, and 2010 progressively strengthened their professional position and social rights.
For generations, women had helped feed the country without enjoying the same recognition as the men beside them. Their struggle was not simply about agriculture. It was about dignity. The contribution of rural women extended far beyond food production. They were also important transmitters of cultural memory. In rural homes, kitchens, farms, markets, and village gatherings, knowledge passed from one generation to another.
Recipes were learned through observation. Songs were remembered through repetition. Traditional remedies were taught through experience. Stories were told beside the fire or during long evenings after work. And languages survived because people continued to speak them.
Breton, Occitan, Catalan, Basque, Alsatian, Corsican, Norman, and other regional languages remained part of everyday life in many rural communities, even as the expansion of standard French and centralised education increasingly reduced their public use.
Women were not their only guardians, but their participation in family life, education, oral traditions, and local networks was fundamental. Their contribution reminds us that culture does not exist only in libraries, universities, and museums. It also lives in the words used to name a plant, the songs sung during a harvest, the stories told to children, and the recipes passed from grandmothers to grandchildren. A language survives when somebody speaks it. A tradition survives when somebody practises it. And a culture survives when somebody considers it worth passing on.
The twentieth century brought profound transformations to French agriculture. Mechanisation, urbanisation, rural depopulation, and changes in family structures altered the traditional organisation of agricultural life. Women increasingly demanded professional recognition, economic independence, access to land, social protection, and participation in agricultural decision-making. Their struggle was part of the wider movement for women's rights, but it also reflected the particular difficulties of rural life.
Living in the countryside could mean geographical isolation, limited public services, fewer employment opportunities, and a demanding combination of agricultural labour and domestic responsibilities. These difficulties have not entirely disappeared.
Today, women farmers continue to face challenges involving access to resources, professional representation, work-life balance, and the economic survival of small agricultural businesses. Nevertheless, they are also central to the future of rural territories. They lead farms, develop sustainable agricultural projects, protect biodiversity, promote local products, and contribute to the revitalisation of villages threatened by depopulation. Their work connects historical knowledge with contemporary environmental challenges.
Paris has long been one of Europe's great political, artistic, and intellectual capitals. Its monuments, museums, boulevards, and cultural institutions tell an extraordinary story. But the history of France cannot be understood through Paris alone. It must also be discovered in a Breton farmhouse, an Occitan vineyard, a Catalan orchard, a Basque mountain village, an Alsatian wine-growing community, a Norman dairy farm, or a Provençal olive grove.
It is a history written not only by kings, generals, politicians, and intellectuals, but also by ordinary people whose work rarely attracted public attention. And among them, rural women deserve a particularly important place. Their labour sustained the economy. Their knowledge helped preserve agricultural traditions. Their voices contributed to the survival of languages and cultures. And their determination opened the way towards greater professional and social equality.
Today, Claire, Joseph and The Grandma wish to pay tribute to all those women. To the women who worked before sunrise. To those who harvested crops while caring for their children. To those who preserved ancestral knowledge without ever writing a book. To those who spoke languages that official institutions sometimes attempted to silence. To those who fought for recognition. And to those who continue cultivating the land today.
Because the history of a country is not written only by those who govern it, but also by those who feed it. And the women of rural France have been writing that history for centuries.
Joseph de Ca'th Lon, Claire Fontaine, and The Grandma are enjoying their final hours in Oslo with old friends. That's the best part of travelling. Beyond the scenery, the cuisine, or the culture, a place is defined by its people -by your friends.
Tomorrow, they will fly to Paris, where they will stay until Sunday. They have taken advantage of these last few hours to buy a masterpiece by Henrik Ibsen, Fruen fra havet (The Lady from the Sea).
There are cities that can be understood through their monuments, others through their history, and some through the rhythm of their streets. Oslo, however, is a city that must also be understood through the sea.
Situated at the northern end of the Oslofjord, the Norwegian capital has developed a profound relationship with the waters that surround it. The sea is not merely part of its landscape. It is part of its history, its economy, its culture, and perhaps even its way of understanding life.
Norway is a maritime nation. With more than 230,000 islands, depending on how they are counted, and a coastline deeply fragmented by fjords, bays, and inlets, the country has always lived in close contact with the sea.
For centuries, the sea was both a road and a frontier. It connected isolated communities, provided food, encouraged trade, and allowed Norwegians to explore territories far beyond their own shores.
From the Viking Age to the modern shipping and fishing industries, maritime life has played a fundamental role in shaping Norwegian identity.
But the sea has another face. It can connect people, yet it can also separate them. It offers freedom, but demands respect. It creates opportunities, but imposes limitations. Perhaps this permanent relationship with a powerful and unpredictable natural environment helps explain something about the Norwegian cultural imagination: the importance of independence, self-reliance, personal space, and silence.
Of course, no national character can be reduced to geography. Nevertheless, landscapes influence the way societies develop, and Norway's landscapes have never been particularly gentle.
Oslo is a fascinating example of this relationship between human achievement and environmental conditions. Today, it is one of Europe's most prosperous capitals, with modern architecture, excellent public services, impressive infrastructure, and an extraordinary connection with nature. Its waterfront has undergone a remarkable transformation. Former industrial and port areas have become cultural and recreational spaces, where contemporary buildings stand beside the waters of the fjord.
The Oslo Opera House, seemingly emerging from the sea, symbolises this dialogue between architecture and landscape. Nearby, the modern MUNCH museum celebrates one of Norway's most internationally recognised artists. Yet the city's greatest luxury may not be its architecture or its economic prosperity.
It may be the possibility of escaping into nature without really leaving the city. Forests, islands, walking trails, and the waters of the fjord are part of everyday life. In summer, residents can swim, sail, explore the islands, or simply enjoy the extraordinary light of northern evenings.
But Oslo has another identity, one that visitors who arrive during the warmer months may never fully understand. Winter changes everything. The days become remarkably short. Around the winter solstice, Oslo receives only about six hours of daylight. Temperatures frequently fall below freezing, snow and ice transform the streets, and the absence of sunlight becomes an unavoidable part of daily life.
Unlike the regions of Norway situated above the Arctic Circle, Oslo does not experience the polar night. Nevertheless, its winter darkness can be challenging, especially for those who have grown up in sunnier climates.
For someone accustomed to Mediterranean light, the contrast can be extraordinary. In Barcelona, the sea is associated with sunshine, outdoor life, crowded terraces, and long evenings. In Oslo, the same element exists within a completely different relationship with light, temperature, and the seasons. Both cities are maritime. Both have been shaped by their ports. Both understand the sea as an essential part of their identity. Yet their climates have encouraged very different ways of living.
And this raises an interesting question: how much does climate influence our happiness, our habits, and our sense of belonging? Norwegians have developed ways of embracing the conditions of their environment. Outdoor activities continue throughout the year, winter sports are deeply rooted in national culture, and the concept of friluftsliv, literally 'open-air life', expresses the importance of maintaining a close relationship with nature. There is also a strong appreciation for domestic comfort, warm interiors, and the pleasures of everyday life during the colder months. But adaptation is not always easy.
For people arriving from other countries, especially those accustomed to more daylight and milder temperatures, the Nordic winter can become a considerable psychological and emotional challenge. Darkness may affect energy, sleep, and mood. Cold weather can change social habits, and cultural differences may make it harder for newcomers to establish relationships and feel at home. Some people discover a profound sense of peace in the Nordic way of life. Others struggle with the long winters, the quieter social environment, or the distance from their families and familiar landscapes. Neither experience is more authentic than the other.
A country can offer extraordinary economic opportunities, security, and natural beauty without necessarily becoming the ideal place for everyone. Quality of life is not determined by income alone. It also depends on personal relationships, emotional well-being, cultural belonging, and the environment in which we feel comfortable. Perhaps this is one of the most interesting contradictions of northern Europe: some of the world's most prosperous societies inhabit landscapes that demand considerable adaptation from those who live in them.
And yet, there is something deeply admirable about the Norwegian relationship with nature. Instead of expecting the environment to adapt to human needs, Norwegians have learned to organise much of their lives around its rhythms. They understand that darkness is followed by light, that winter eventually gives way to spring, and that the sea, however cold or unpredictable, remains an inseparable part of their existence.
Oslo is beautiful because of its architecture, its culture, its prosperity, and its spectacular natural surroundings. But it is also beautiful because it reminds us that human beings are not separate from the landscapes they inhabit. The sea shapes the coast. The seasons shape everyday life. And over generations, geography leaves its mark on culture. Perhaps the real essence of Oslo lies somewhere between the silence of its winter mornings and the endless light of its summer evenings. Between the forests and the fjord. Between prosperity and resilience. Between the human desire for comfort and the extraordinary power of nature. Because the sea does not simply surround Norway. In many ways, it has helped make Norway what it is.
For Henrik Ibsen, the sea was much more than a geographical feature of his homeland. It was an emotional landscape, a source of inspiration, and a powerful symbol of freedom.
Born in Skien in 1828, Ibsen spent his early years in a country where the sea was inseparable from everyday life. Later, during his long residence in Italy and Germany, he discovered that geographical distance could also become an emotional separation.
In letters to his publisher Frederik Hegel, Ibsen repeatedly expressed his longing for the sea. It was not simply Norway that he missed, but the presence of the waters that had accompanied his youth.
This relationship became particularly significant in Fruen fra havet (The Lady from the Sea) (1888), a play in which the protagonist, Ellida Wangel, feels imprisoned by the limitations of her existence. For Ellida, the open sea represents freedom, possibility, and the life she might have lived. The sheltered waters of the fjord, by contrast, reflect the security and restrictions of her marriage and social environment.
Through her psychological struggle, Ibsen explores a profoundly human question: can we truly belong somewhere if we have never been free to choose it?
The sea becomes a metaphor for everything that cannot be entirely controlled or possessed: desire, independence, memory, and personal identity.
Perhaps Ibsen understood something essential about the Norwegian relationship with nature. The landscapes we grow up with do not simply remain in our memories. They become part of the way we understand ourselves. And sometimes, only when we leave them behind do we discover how deeply they belong to us.
Claire Fontaine and The Grandma are in Oslo, where they have an important appointment this afternoon with the Northern Star -who has a very significant, century-old match ahead.
While they are waiting for the arrival of Joseph de Ca'th Lon, they have decided to go to one of their most cherished spots in this city to enjoy a morning of art and human reflection.
No matter how many times you visit Oslo, a trip to the Munchmuseet is a must. You should lose yourself in its vast galleries and admire the work of one of the most fascinating painters in the history of art. Munch explores deeply human themes -such as pain, anguish, loneliness, and mental fragility- through an incredibly introspective style of art.
Every single one of Munch's works is a masterpiece in its own right. However, for The Grandma, the piece that sparks the most admiration and curiosity is The Sun. It stands apart from his usual dark, raw, and dramatic subject matter; it serves as a reminder that, no matter how harsh, cruel, or sad life may be, there are always moments of light. Pain may come and go, but the sun will continue to rise each day -illuminating our world, providing us with light and energy, and gifting us that essential vitamin D we all need.
There are museums that we visit to admire works of art, and others that take us on an unexpected journey through the human mind. The MUNCH Museum in Oslo belongs to the second category.
Walking through its galleries is a fascinating, disturbing and sometimes heartbreaking experience. The paintings of Edvard Munch (1863-1944) confront us with some of the most profound emotions of human existence: fear, loneliness, anxiety, jealousy, grief, love and death. His ghostly figures, unsettling landscapes and disturbing representations of illness and mortality seem to reveal a mind deeply familiar with psychological suffering. And yet, among these expressions of darkness, we suddenly encounter The Sun, an extraordinary explosion of light, energy and vitality.
How could the same artist create such different worlds? Perhaps the answer lies not only in Munch's psychological struggles but in something far more fascinating: the relationship between human experience and artistic genius.
Edvard Munch's childhood was marked by tragedy. His mother died of tuberculosis when he was five years old, and his beloved sister Sophie died of the same disease when he was fourteen. His father struggled with anxiety and religious fears, and illness remained a constant presence in the family. These experiences left a profound mark on Munch's emotional life.
In The Sick Child (1885-1886), he transformed the memory of his sister's illness into an extraordinarily moving painting. In Death in the Sickroom (1893), the members of a grieving family occupy the same space but seem imprisoned within their individual suffering. They are physically together, yet emotionally isolated. Death appears repeatedly in Munch's work, but it would be simplistic to interpret this recurrence merely as an obsession. Perhaps he returned to these subjects because painting offered him a way to explore experiences that could never be fully understood or explained.
In 1908, after years of psychological difficulties and problematic alcohol consumption, Munch experienced a serious crisis and received psychiatric treatment in Copenhagen. However, his artistic achievement cannot be explained by his psychological condition alone.
Millions of people have suffered, and millions continue to suffer. Yet suffering does not automatically produce artistic genius. Munch's greatness was not that he suffered, but that he possessed the extraordinary ability to transform human experience into art.
Few paintings have captured psychological distress as powerfully as The Scream (1893). Its central figure seems overwhelmed by an unbearable sensation. The distorted face, the open mouth, the blood-red sky and the unsettling movement of the landscape create an atmosphere in which the entire world appears to participate in human anguish. Munch did not simply represent a frightened individual. He gave visual form to an emotion that millions of people have experienced but might struggle to describe.
Something similar occurs in Anxiety (1894), where a procession of pale, expressionless figures confronts the viewer. Their faces resemble masks. Their eyes seem empty. Although they stand close together, they appear profoundly disconnected. The painting raises an uncomfortable question: can we feel completely alone even when surrounded by other people?
Munch's achievement was to make the invisible visible. Fear has no particular shape. Anxiety has no single colour. Loneliness cannot be measured or photographed. And yet, through his artistic language, these emotions become almost tangible. This is where suffering ends and artistic creation begins.
Does the artist express himself through art, or does art give the artist a voice? The relationship between psychological suffering and artistic creation is one of the most fascinating questions in the history of culture. It extends far beyond painting.
In nineteenth-century Russian literature, Fyodor Dostoevsky explored guilt, obsession, moral conflict and psychological fragmentation with an intensity that continues to astonish readers. Raskolnikov, the protagonist of Crime and Punishment, is not simply a man tormented by his actions. He is a literary exploration of conscience, morality and the contradictions of the human mind. In The Gambler, Dostoevsky transformed his familiarity with compulsive gambling into an extraordinary psychological portrait of dependency and self-destruction. Where Dostoevsky needed words, characters and complex narratives, Munch used colours, shapes and faces. Both artists explored the darker dimensions of human existence, but neither can be reduced to personal suffering. The same phenomenon can be observed in post-war literature. Writers such as Primo Levi, who survived Auschwitz, and Mercè Rodoreda, whose life was profoundly affected by the Spanish Civil War and exile, transformed historical trauma and human suffering into literature of extraordinary significance. Their experiences mattered, but their literary talent, imagination and ability to observe the human condition were equally essential. And this leads to an intriguing question.
Does an artist use art to express emotions that already exist, or does the creative process itself reveal emotions and ideas that the artist had not yet fully understood? Perhaps both possibilities are true. Art is not simply a container for feelings. It is also a way of thinking, questioning, interpreting and discovering. The artist transforms experience into art, but the process of creation may also transform the artist's understanding of that experience.
There is a dangerous tendency to romanticise the relationship between psychological suffering and artistic genius. The image of the tortured artist has become almost a cultural stereotype. But suffering is neither a necessary condition for artistic greatness nor a guarantee of creativity.
Millions of people experience grief, depression, fear and emotional distress without producing works of art. And countless extraordinary artists have created masterpieces inspired by happiness, love, curiosity, beauty or the simple pleasure of observing the world. What distinguishes great artists is not the intensity of their suffering but their ability to observe, interpret and transform experience through an exceptional artistic language. Their imagination allows them to communicate not only what they have personally experienced but also what they have understood about other human beings. An artist does not necessarily need to experience every emotion or situation represented in a work. Empathy, observation and imagination are also essential creative forces. Perhaps the most remarkable achievement of artistic genius is the transformation of something individual into something universal.
Munch's anxiety becomes our anxiety. Dostoevsky's moral conflicts become our questions. Rodoreda's characters make us recognise emotions and experiences that transcend their particular historical circumstances. Suffering does not create artists. Artistic genius gives human experience a language that can transcend the individual.
After encountering so many images of grief, anxiety and death, discovering The Sun (1910-1911) feels almost like entering another emotional universe. Created for the University of Oslo's Aula, this monumental painting presents a radiant sun rising above a coastal landscape. Powerful rays of light spread across the composition, illuminating the sea and surrounding rocks. There are no ghostly faces. No dying children. No figures overwhelmed by fear. There is only the overwhelming presence of light. It would be tempting to interpret the painting as evidence that Munch had finally escaped his psychological suffering, particularly because it was created after his psychiatric treatment. But human psychology is far too complex for such a simple explanation.
The painting also reflects his artistic interest in nature, vitality, renewal and the relationship between human existence and the natural world. What makes The Sun extraordinary is not that it contradicts The Scream, but that both works belong to the same artistic imagination. The artist who could represent unbearable anxiety could also celebrate the extraordinary energy of life. Perhaps we have spent too much time looking at Munch through the darkness of his most famous painting. The Sun reminds us that his creative universe was infinitely richer. The same imagination that gave darkness a face gave light an almost overwhelming physical presence.
The MUNCH Museum in Oslo is much more than a building containing paintings. It was opened in 2021 in the Bjørvika waterfront district. Its striking thirteen-storey structure, with its distinctive leaning upper section and translucent façade, has become part of Oslo's contemporary architectural identity. The building rises above the waterfront, establishing a visual dialogue with the city, the fjord and the changing Norwegian light. Its vertical organisation offers visitors a succession of artistic experiences and changing perspectives. Inside, the galleries reveal the extraordinary diversity of Munch's work, from intimate and disturbing paintings to monumental compositions.
The museum also reflects the remarkable legacy of an artist who left thousands of works to the city of Oslo. There is something deeply symbolic about dedicating such an extraordinary architectural space to a man whose paintings so frequently explored isolation and emotional vulnerability. An artist who represented loneliness has become the centre of a place where people gather. A man who explored the difficulties of human communication now speaks to visitors from every corner of the world. His personal experiences have become part of humanity's shared cultural heritage. And perhaps the museum itself can be understood as a metaphor.
Visitors move through different spaces, encounter different emotions and discover contrasting dimensions of Munch's imagination. They move between darkness and light, suffering and vitality, intimacy and monumentality. The building does not merely preserve his paintings. It invites us to experience the complexity of his artistic universe.
There is something profoundly moving, and also deeply sad, about the relationship between suffering and artistic creation. We admire paintings, novels and musical compositions that may have emerged from experiences of extraordinary pain. We celebrate their beauty while recognising the human vulnerability behind them. But we must never confuse the value of the artwork with the desirability of the suffering that may have influenced it. Art can give meaning and form to painful experiences without necessarily healing the person who creates it. Perhaps the greatest paradox of art is that something born from profound loneliness can become a universal language of human connection.
Munch painted his fears, and more than a century later, visitors entering a museum in Oslo can recognise something of themselves in his figures. The artist's experience was personal. The emotional response has become universal. And this may be the most extraordinary achievement of art: its ability to cross the boundaries of time, geography, language and individual experience.
Leaving the MUNCH Museum does not necessarily mean leaving Edvard Munch behind. His paintings remain in our imagination because they confront us with emotions that belong to the human condition. They remind us that fear, grief, love, loneliness and hope are not isolated experiences but part of what connects us to one another.
Munch was not a great artist because he suffered. He was a great artist because he possessed the talent, sensitivity, imagination and extraordinary creative vision to transform human experience into a language that continues to move us. And perhaps that is why The Sun is such an essential part of his legacy. It reminds us that the human mind cannot be defined by its darkest moments. There is suffering, but there is also beauty. There is anxiety, but there is also wonder. There is death, but there is also life.
Edvard Munch gave darkness a voice, but he also knew how to paint the light. And between those two extremes lies the extraordinary complexity of being human, because art and psychological suffering have the extraordinary ability to transform human emotions into a universal language. The tragedy is not that artists suffer. The tragedy is that so much suffering exists in the world. The miracle of art is that some human beings possess the extraordinary gift of transforming experience into something that helps others understand what it means to be alive.
Munch painted the loneliness of the human soul. More than a century later, we stand together before his paintings, discovering that even the most solitary emotions can bring people closer.
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