L'ECLECTIQUE, Saint-Tropez, le banc des mensonges

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L’Eclectique L’amateur éclectique

L’Eclectique : “ De doctrine, je n’en ai point à formuler, je n’ai jamais trouvé mangeable la cuisine des chimistes ”. Saint-John Perse

Saint-Tropez Le banc des mensonges The bench of lies

par David Verlant

par David Verlant The bench of lies

Le banc des mensonges

Saint-Tropez L’Eclectique : “ De doctrine, je n’en ai point à formuler, je n’ai jamais trouvé mangeable la cuisine des chimistes ”. Saint-John Perse

L’Eclectique L’amateur éclectique



Edito

Depuis toujours, je rêve de lui rendre un tout petit peu de ce qu’elle m’a donné… Avant de partir, je voulais lui laisser une marque d’amour, aussi éphémère qu’une empreinte de mon pied sur le sable mouillé… Elle a été pendant presque toute ma vie, une presqu’île d’élection, une retraite d’amour, un îlet de Provence qui ne m’a jamais déçu où que mon regard se posât et en toute saison, pour un équilibre durable et… pour les Hommes, grands et petits, connus et illustres inconnus, parcelle d’humanité venue à notre rencontre nous enrichir de leurs différences. Quand on vit dans un paradis, nul besoin de voyager, le monde entier vient à vous, si on veut bien l’accueillir. Mais, comme toutes les belles, elle a déchaîné les passions, a été jalousée, avilie, salie, décriée, traînée dans la boue, maltraitée, accusée de tous les vices, trahie par ceux-là même qui se disaient ses amis et se languissaient à ses pieds… Alors, ma terre d’asile, ma frangine d’amour, je veux te déclarer, dans les pages de ce magazine en m’appliquant de ma plume d’oie avec pleins et déliés, tout l’amour que je te porte. Il y a toujours eu deux mots dont je me suis fait le chantre : " amateur et éclectique ". Dans le premier, je n’ai jamais vu que le mot " amour ". Et, dans le second, du grec eklegein, choisir ce qu’il y a de meilleur en tout, la vie étant trop courte pour s’enfermer dans un système. Tu as compris, lecteur, mon ami, mon frère, ma préférence va vers ceux qui s’intéressent à beaucoup de choses par amour plutôt que vers ceux qui n’en aiment qu’une par intérêt… J’ai confié à David Verlant, photographe et poète, le soin de vous emmener en exil sur notre bout du monde, notre presqu’île de beauté, notre Saint-Tropez.

For a long time, I have always dreamed that I could give back , even if it was just a little bit, of what I had received… Before leaving, I wanted to leave a mark of my love, as fleeting as the print of my feet in wet sand… For most of my life this has been a place for my personal retreat, an isle of Provence that has never disappointed me, where myI felt great consolation and peace with every season, and… For all Man, great or small, known or unknown, that all came here and enrich us with their differences. When you live in Paradise, there is no need to travel, the entire world comes to you, if you are willing to greet it, open armed. But… Like all beautiful things, it unleashes passion, jealousy, it is debased, dirtied, maltreated and abused, accused of every vice, betrayed by those who claimed high and low that they were their friends. Therefor, my promised land, my blood brother, I do declare, in the pages of this journal, by applying my quill, all the love I have for you. There have always been two words that have made me sing, “amateur and eclectic”. The first, I have only seen the word “love”. In the second, from eklegein Greek. To chose that which is the best of everything, in other words, living a life that is to short to be closed off by the “system”. I am sure you have understood, dear reader, my friend, my brother, my preference goes toward those who choose by love rather than by personal interest… I have entrusted this edition to David Verlant, who is both photographer and poet. He will be taking you into the wonderful and beautiful world that is our precious and undeniably beautiful “island” Saint-Tropez. JEAN-CHARLES COURCOT





The village of Saint-Tropez What secret mystery is Saint-Tropez? What is this place? I packed up all my belongings and set off to the village. The sun has turned the walls to fire, yet the blues have enveloped my spirit. This is the beginning of everything. I am in Saint-Tropez like a clown popping out of a cracker jack box? In the past the artists came here, woozie from dawn to dusk by the colors the light cast. Get out of bed and unleash the horns full blast so that we can find, once again, in that wonderfull aura the reflection of our quiet lives. Oh quiet pain… Saint-Tropez, a vanishing world. That of the artists, jazz all the night through, the fishermen. Now even our cherished game of “pétanque” tucks itself quietly and early to bed. One must preserve the memory of those beautiful things past. At the local bar, this is where we can observe and discuss our current issues with those who faces express the simple life. I look on and keep my pace, but it all stays the same for me. The countryside stands by unaltered. An imposed solitude. I seem to be able to reconstruct my emotions. Encounters.




Je suis tropézien. Je pêche depuis bientôt quarante ans. Ce bateau, je l'ai construit moi-même. Il a l'âge de mon fils. C'est mon deuxième enfant. C'est tout ce qu'il me reste. Ici, au large des Canoubiers, c'est un site protégé. Tu vois, il n'y a pas de vent et la vague que tu aperçois, au loin, provient du passage d'une baleine. Au fur et à mesure que le jour monte, le poisson se prend dans les filets. Quand il y a le soleil, le poisson a tendance à courir. Tu passeras au marché, je te donnerai du poisson. Tu sais, on n’est plus que trois ou quatre pêcheurs aujourd'hui…

Guy, alias “The fisherman” The sea has that unique quality that enable us to call to mind those who are no longer with us. Guy has been able to catch all the local fish even the lost difficult and evasive. My heart is alive again with this sublime daylight, once again, gleaming itself over to me… a glorious day begins. One must treat the sea with tenderness and abord it with finesse. Guy speaks little. What an extraordinary trade! To leave at dawn and be at the mercy of the waters… to come back with bursting nets, and deliver the treasures of delicate white meat to your brothers.


Watching the fisherman leave at day break

I am TropÊzien. I have been a fisherman for almost 40 years. I made my boat from scratch. She is the same age as my son. She is my second child. This is all I have left. Today, this marvellous site, Les Canoubiers, is environmentally protected. Look‌ do you see the wave at large? That comes from the wake of a whale. As the day goes by and the sun is strong the fish run freely and are caught in the nets. Come to the market and I will give you some fish. You know, there are only three or four of us fisherman left.




Coming up to the warf where the fishermen are, that is precisely where the lighthouse is, I can see the agitation in the port where all the nets are milled together, and the seamen attend to their catch. I yawn, open mouthed and salty. The seagulls that are following us, waltz to their own tune… sometimes silent… other times playful and mocking. On the warf, Joseph is wating for us. He no longer goes to sea, but is there to inspect the catch! “Good catch”, he yells out… I feel like I am really part of the family!





The fish market


The Square of herbs


Alley ways of laced promises


The nostalgia of tartans


Quietly

The roofing and the bell



Je suis né ici. Mon Saint-Tropez autour du cou ne me quitte jamais. L'action se situe en l'an 68 de notre ère. Le chevalier Torpes était intendant à la cour impériale de Néron et, s'étant converti au christianisme, il fut décapité, son corps mis dans une barque avec un coq et un chien. L'embarcation a dérivé de Pise jusqu'à Gênes et de Gênes jusqu'à nous, grâce au courant ligure. La barque est arrivée au Pilon et recueillie par une femme nommée Célérine. Le corps est conservé sous les fondations de la chapelle SaintTropez. La tête est à Pise dans un reliquaire en argent. En 739, la ville a été anéantie par des invasions barbares. Et, en 1470, vingt familles de colons génois ont repeuplé la ville pour y redonner vie. Saint-Tropez est devenu une république indépendante avec un capitaine de ville et une milice qui assuraient la protection des habitants du village. Mais Louis XIV a aboli ces privilèges et a mis en place une garnison royale. La fonction de capitaine de ville a été maintenue à titre honorifique. Depuis 1558, ont débuté les premières Bravades. Cette tradition entretient le passé glorieux du village maintes fois assiégé et le souvenir de notre Saint patron, le protecteur de la ville, Saint-Tropez. Je ne pourrais pas vivre hors du pays Saint-Tropez.


Patrick: alias “The Devoted” Patrick, with his youth, paints busts of Saint-Tropez, and offers them at Christmas to the family. This is no laughing matter! His is very serious. Rue du Portail Neuf… His small studio. A wave of history. Such elegance. The only way to really learn the history of this village that I love.

I was born here. My pendant, Saint-Tropez, is always around my neck. The action is situated in the year around 68 AD. The chevalier, Torpes, was intendant at the court of Neron, and had converted to cristianity. He was decapitated, and his body was put in a small boat with a dog and a rooster. The boat floated all the way from Pise, to Genoa, and then on to us, because of the ligurian current. It arrived at Pilon and was found by a young woman by the name of Célérine. The body was kept under the foundations of the Chapel. The head, howeveris kept in Pise as a relic. In 739, the city was destroyed by barbarious invasions and in 1470, twenty families from Genoa colonized the city and once again brought it back to life. Saint-Tropez became an independent republic with a captain who was head of the local police, who kept peace, and protected the civilians. But Louis XIV abolished its privileges, and put in his own royal army. The function of the “captain”, then became an honorary title. Since 1558, the first Bravade started. This glorious tradition keeps on to this day, and I could not imagine living anywhere else but here.


The Chapel Saint Anne. The chapel of the seamen that have been saved during the storm.


Matisse love this view over Camarat



Hours and hours of sweet dreams. Oh faithfull country side.


I am leaving my chaos and rumpled shirts behind for the sweetness of the fresh morning dew. I have my own shadows, she does to. I fight against the disorder that inhabits me to find a new found rigor in madam country. The fine lines of the trees and the broken horizon over the hills. We plant a tree for someone. Flat on my stomach, I wait under the pine trees… A hunter comes by his gun quite cold, he thinks I am a one of them. He really isn’t hunting… He’s only walking through, he says. In any case… I got the fox!


Twelve twenty


A farmer peasant


Cows by the warf



The faithfull shepherd April, somewhere beyond. A chaotic dream. The fervent plains. Five hundred sheep and the Little Prince. A painting by Bonnard. The shepherd and his flock. The bells. The two hounds as excited as spermatozoids on the look out. And the scent of sheep. A marked silence. Acid. The bells. The animals grazing on tender grass. The emotion fills my senses. I am a little boy running and crying out. Amidst the woolly creatures. They all chose one direction at the same time. The farm of our childhood. The shepherd in his own secluded habits. A guide. They are running in every direction: Both men and hounds to round up the tired troupe. Like a free man.


The faithfull shepherd

Les moutons Un gars avait acheté un hôtel, brut de béton. N'ayant pas de permis de construire, il a dû arrêter. Abandonné, j'en ai eu la jouissance. J'ai paillé le rez-de-chaussée. Les bêtes couchaient à l'hôtel. Puis, après des années de procès, ils ont rasé l'hôtel. Je suis venu coucher les bêtes, il n'y avait plus que la terre. Les moutons se sont tous arrêtés d'un coup, ne comprenant pas où était passée leur bergerie de luxe. Ils ont été se coucher pile à l'endroit habituel. Ensuite, pendant plusieurs années, quand je perdais une brebis, je la retrouvais au golf qu'ils ont construit depuis, sur les vestiges de leur hôtel. On marche beaucoup la nuit, au mois de juin, pour éviter que les bêtes aient trop chaud. Tu marches devant, un peu fatigué sur la route d'un col, et parfois le troupeau prend, à l'embouchure un raccourci et toi, crevé, tu continues à marcher tout seul. Les bêtes ont la mémoire des lieux parcourus. T'es toujours esclave des bestioles. C'est tous les jours, leur donner à manger, les soigner. Là, il y en a pas loin de cinq cents. La liberté du berger c'est...

The sheep A man had purchased a hotel, not as yet, entirely completed. Not having a building permit, he had to stop. As it was abandoned, I had free use of it. I placed straw on the main level. The sheep slept at the hotel ! After years of legal proceedings, they levelled the hotel. I came to put to the sheep in their modern stable, and there was only the earth floor. The sheep stopped dead in their tracks, wondering what happened to their luxurious home. They went to the exact spot as before. As it happened, the years went by, and whenever I lost one of the sheep, I would always find it on the golfcourse that was built on the vestiges of the hotel. We walk a great deal in the summer so the flock doesn’t get to thirsty. You walk in front of the flock, a little tired, and the entire troupe takes a short cut, and even though you are exhausted you must continue all alone. The animals have memory sensors. You are always the slave to the animals. Every day, you give them their fare, and take care of them. There are not far from 500 heads. The shepherd finds his freedom in…


Wool

wool

wool




Inspired by “The Storm” Paul Signac 1895


Panic in Pampelonne beach




“pains parapluie”



Frédéric-Mistral warf


The marines


Je gagne de l'argent en ne faisant rien. Je suis juif polonais. Ludovic Glassberg. Je fais la statue pour oublier. Pendant 25 ans, j'étais photographe, reporter de guerre : le Cambodge, le Liban, l'Afghanistan. Je parle et je ne sais pas qui je suis. Tu le vois dans mes yeux ? J'ai l'oeil exacerbé. Quand je fais la statue, je n'entends plus rien. Mais je vois. C'est mon plus beau reportage. Sur l'Homme et son inquiétude, son étrange attitude, repli et exaltation devant un homme, peint de noir, qui rend hommage à Suffren.

Ludovic Glassberg: alias “The statue” Café des arts… no one around… at the favourite table that the guys take after they have finished with their “petanque”, they come over and start with the card game, piocle. I am at the bar quietly sipping my drink. Their I see a very curious figure. His cap firmly gripping his head, and a beer firmly gripped in his hand! He has the stunning steel blue eyes… eyes that most certainly cried a thousand tears, and a thousand beers! A sad clown. He approached me, telling me that he thinks I had a great “look” about me. He sits down and begs for me to sit with him. Of course, I surrender! I tell him how proud I am to be part of all of this. “greeting Mr. Photographer”. Like someone who is shipwrecked. His beard hides his face and sometimes even his words. Nevertheless, it was an unexpected encounter. He showed me his "star od David".


I make my living doing nothing. I am a polish jew. Ludovic Glassberg. I am a statue, so I feel nothing, to forget. For over 25 years, I was a war photographer: Cambodia, Liban, Afganistan. I speak, yet I do not know who I am. You can see it in my eyes. When I am a statue, I hear no sounds, but I can see. That is my best report. On Man and his worries, his stange attitude, in retreat from man‌ painted in black, rendering homage to Suffren.


Seemingly dissolving back to nature


The burglary




In the night, I file off miles and miles of sentiment


The burglary



The Ponche, the place where the fishermen gathered in the past. The elders who quietly napped, and if wakened, they would unleash buckets of water on the unsuspecting intruder. In the quiet of the morning, I go to the point of the seamans cemetery, that opens out directly to the sea. There is a genuine silence‌ and someone.. a man. Silence brings men together in a sort. I come across him every day, with his beer. His name is Youcef. Just sitting there lost in his thoughts. There is always a place for this on the horizon, a sort of abandon.

The alleyway. Hopping along.


Wading in the sea


Youcef

Youcef

Youcef, c’est mon petit prénom. Je vis à Saint-Tropez, depuis 1968. Je suis parti d’Algérie. Je voudrais finir mes jours, ici, face à la mer, comme Jean Gabin. C’est à ça que je pense, comment va finir la vie. L’Algérie c’est bien mais le peuple vit avec des mensonges. Là-bas, c’est pas ma place, pourtant j’y suis né. Ici, tout le monde me connaît, personne ne dépasse un mot. Je suis venu ici pour le calme. J’ai travaillé, je vis, j’ai ma famille. Je suis un mec tranquille. C’est mieux comme ça. J’achète six bières et je les bois tranquille. On n’est bien qu’avec le bruit de la mer. Je ne dois rien à personne. Voilà, tous les jours un peu, ça revient dans la mémoire. Bon, à demain alors.

Youcef Youcef is my name. I have lived in St. Tropez since 1968. I left Algeria. I wanted to live my life to the end, here, like Jean Gabin. I often imagine how my life will end. Algeria is alright, but the people live with lies. Everyone knows who I am here, no one speaks badly to me. I came here for the peacefulness of everything. I work and live here with my family. I am a quiet fellow. It is better this way. I buy 6 beers and savour them. One is happy to hear only the echo of the sea. I owe nothing to anyone. This comes back to my memory every day. Ok… see you tomorrow.


Coastal path


The surroundings


Unalterable countryside


Saint-Tropez November. I am waiting for winter to be able to find your trace again.


Surveying the month of November

Eighteen Euros




Past and present


Saint-Tropez Dunkerque


The lighthouse seen from Trezain. A point of view cherished by the artists past.


Mon grand-père est mort en 1949. Je suis fier d'être le petit-fils d'un bon peintre, point à la ligne. Mes peintures, c'est de la merde. Je n’ai pas mon art à moi. C'est Signac qui a fait venir Manguin, ici. Il acheta plein de toiles à Matisse et Marquet. Ces deux-là étaient pauvres, ils piquaient des tubes de peinture. Mais mon grand-père dit à sa femme : “je ne peux pas peindre avec ces toiles sous mon nez”. Grammont, du musée de l'Annonciade, les a rachetées. Un jour, alors que j'avais des problèmes pour me loger, un ami me donna une tour en bois venue d'Indochine. Un jouet de gosses. Je me baladais dans tout Saint-Tropez en disant : “moi je vais vivre dans une tour en bois”. Et je l'ai construite. Rien n'est droit. Tout de traviole. Comme quoi, la folie est payante. Je suis un vieux cerf ravalant, je fais la cour aux femmes. J'ai une des plus belles vies du coin, même si je suis un tricheur.

Manguin Manguin. Old fool! Your ideas really and truly disturb me. But… curiosity killed the cat, and one must open a new book every day to progress, if not, all is lost. Ok… I’m coming… Are you ready? Manguin! At the end on this very torturous trail, which I find incredibly easy, I finally reach the wood cabin of the famous artist. Sinister and most cynical. Nothing is strait! I like this!! The house of a “cubist”. We share a drink together and talk.

My grandfather died in 1949. I am very proud to be the grand son of a good artist. My paintings are shit. I do not have my own art form. It was Signac who made Manguin come here. He bought a great many paintings from Matisse and Marquet. Those two were dead poor, they even stole paint. He said to my grandmother : “I can’t paint with those things under my nose.” Grammont, at the Museum of the Annonciade, bought them from him. One day, when I was having problems paying the rent, I had a friend give me a wooden toy from Indochina. You know a kids toy. I used to walk around St. Tropez saying: “I’m going to live in a wooden tower”. And I did. I made it myself. Nothing is straight. Everything is crooked. Craziness pays off in the long! I’m just an old doe, I run after woman. I live better than anyone here, even if I do cheat!



The dew of Provence


Lost in the fog

I have just left Francis, the grandson of Manguin… I have to go back the same way I came on this sinewy trail. I seem to be stangled by the narrowness of the road. My trail is cubist! The color pink… the pink of the “Rosé de Provence”.


A shaggy tree


One is the other


Pastis or Ricard ?


Ah! Shade!


The Jacques Tati of the Place des Lices


A lifetime


The wash house

Leonilla: alias “The Russian Countess� She finds her way up the perilous alley, dressed I solitude, pearls illuminate her face. I am constantly meeting her here and there. Here she is, eighty years and running, at her place at the table. We share a drink together. Your innerlight warms my heart.


Mon père était comte de Koromansky. Quand il est parti, j'ai arrêté de parler russe. Je suis née en 1924. Je n'aurais jamais imaginé finir ma vie à Saint-Tropez. Ici, c'est une presqu'île, il y a quelque chose d'autre. Tout le monde m'aime bien. Je vis seule mais je ne le suis pas. Mon mari n'est plus là. J'ai joué au théâtre des Capucins : “Une Femme par Jour”. Vous connaissez ?... Non... bon eh bien, j'ai également été petit rat de l'opéra de Pearls Nice. Le cimetière marin, je l'aime bien, mais c'est idiot ça me fout le cafard. Je viens ici, je picole un p'tit peu, mais pas trop. Qu'est-ce que vous regardez ? C'est un collier de perles que l'on m'a offert lorsque je fus élue Miss Côte d'Azur en 1939. Ce collier, c'est ma jeunesse.

My father was the count Koromansky. When he passed on I stopped speaking Russian. I was born in 1924. I never thought I would live out my days in Saint-Tropez. It is almost an island, but there is something that keeps me here. Most everyone seems to like me. I live alone but I do not feel alone. My husband is no longer alive. You know, I performed at the Theatre des Capucins: “Une femme par jour”. Do you know this play? No… oh well, I was also a “petit rat” at the Nice Opéra. I enjoy the seamans cemetery, it quite crazy, but it makes me feel sad. I come her and mabey I drink just a little to much. What are you looking at? This is the pearles necklace that was given to me when I was elected Mess Cote d’Azur in 1939. This necklace represents my youth.


The childrens festival


Carefull!

The fun fair Place des Lices


Tourists and shark!

Window shopping





“Les Voiles de Saint-Tropez”



Portside


Starboard


Errol flynn clipper. Karenita.


Wavey memories


My boat


The port at night


The Square of Herbs

Tip-toe



This is my bark, heavy with the sea and wood, capsizes.





Alleyway


Latin sails and canvas


Fishermans warf


A dog’s life

On the bench of lies, I can see Joseph and his friends: Oh! I can’t tell you anything… I have forgotten it all. You know, it was all such a long time ago! I haven’t been to sea in over 30 years. Time goes on. There were no restaurants at that time… all this was storage space for the fisherman. There were chickens on the warf at that time. No… I really can’t remember. I’d probably just tell you things that weren’t true. Why don’t you go and see… now… whats his name??? There you go… my memory has failed once again. Well… have to be on now… see you soon.


En 1971, j'étais maire à Saint-Tropez. C'était la vie comme aujourd'hui. Le Cepoun, cela veut dire souche en provençal. Je suis garant de la tradition du village, tradition religieuse et militaire, pour commémorer le souvenir du Saint et la création de l'armée tropézienne, datant de 1558, avec, à sa tête, un capitaine de ville. Aujourd'hui, le cortège de la Bravade représente symboliquement cette armée. Par sa position géographique, Saint-Tropez fut souvent attaqué. Puis, sous le règne de Louis XIV, est venue s'installer une garnison royale à la citadelle. Ainsi a disparu l'armée tropézienne. Ce sont les peintres qui ont fait connaître Saint-Tropez, à la fin 1900. Signac, Camoin, Person, Manguin... Paul Signac est venu la première fois en 1892. Il avait un bateau, Olympia, dont mon père s'occupait. C'est là, gamin que je l'ai connu. Signac a écrit à un de ses amis parisiens, je cite mot pour mot : "Je suis descendu dans le midi pour travailler, j'ai trouvé un coin d'une luminosité exceptionnelle. Ce coin s'appelle Saint-Tropez". Deux ans après, il achetait sa maison atelier La Hune. Enfin, bref, Saint-Tropez, c'est le plus beau pays du monde.

Marius Astézan: alias “the Cepoun” Here is the bravade! Those are not my shoes. The respect for history is very important in the village, especially for the next three days. Before the festivities of the summer season, SaintTropez will live the blunderbluss. This is an ancestral procession of quilted skirts, all the cloths are vintage Provencal. Starched lace, and head dresses, silk… and drums. To try to know more about the event I decided to knock on the door of “The Friends of the Bravade”. In 1971, I was the mayor of Saint Tropez. It was essentially the same as today. “The cepoun” which means stump in Provencal. I am the guardian of traditions, religious and military. To commemorate the memory of a saint and the creation of the army of Saint-Tropez, dating back to 1558, with at the head of this, captain. Today this is represented by the parade of the Bravade. Geographically, Saint-Tropez was often invaded. Under the reign of Louis XIV the royal regiment to place at the Citadelle. That’s how the local army finally disappeared. The artists made Saint Tropez known to the outside world, at the end of 1900. Signac, Camoin, Person, Manguin… Paul Signac first came here in 1892. He had a boat, named Olympia, and my father took care of it for him. When I was a kid I knew him. He would write to his friends in Paris and tell them that he came south to work. He had found an exceptional light. That place was Saint-Tropez. Two years later he bought his house, La Hune. Whatever, Saint-Tropez is the most beautiful place in the world.





The bravade


Judge Suffren


I would go willingly… but it’s so very far away


The countryside crackles under my feet


When I was a little boy


Auto portrait


The church bell in Gassin on as festive day


God’s beasts


L'église fait partie du circuit des touristes. Ils entrent, ils regardent, mais ils ne voient rien. Peut-être, parce qu'ils ne veulent pas. Les gens me demandent : “Mais vous êtes vraiment le prêtre, vous n'êtes pas déguisé ?”. Le dimanche, toute l'année, l'église est pleine à craquer. Il y a une grande ferveur, ici. Les Tropéziens sont souvent enterrés en uniforme de bravadeur. Les fleurs pour les obsèques sont rouges et blanches, couleurs du village. Il y a aussi des célébrations envers Saint Joseph, patron des charpentiers de marine. Également, envers Saint Pierre, patron des pêcheurs. Toute l'année, les Tropéziens montent en procession à Sainte Anne après un baptême, un mariage, pour rendre grâces. Au XVIIe siècle, des marins bretons ont prié Sainte Anne en disant : “si nous sommes sauvés, nous construirons une chapelle”. Beaucoup de gens viennent se confesser. C'est parfois très émouvant. Regardez l'église, c'est quelque chose de vivant. Voyez cette dame à genoux qui nettoie les bancs. Il est tôt et les bougies sont allumées. C'est le signe que beaucoup de Tropéziens sont venus prier. Ma vie est faite d'imprévus. Du rire aux larmes.

Father Michel: alias The Gallois Enter the church… to get the feeling… to light a candle. Then one is overcome with feelings… we think of those who are no longer of this world. A fleeting thought of those we love. I can tell all to this man. I can express all the worries and cares, all that has been spent in this life. This I can say with no fear. To this man. And again, so many other things, because, at the end of the day, the only thing that matters is the truth that lies in His eyes.

The church is part of the tourist path. They enter, take a long look, but they don’t really see anything. Mabey they just don’t want to. People always ask, “Are you the priest? But you are not in disguise?”. Every day and all through the year the church is overflowing. There is a fervent following here. The local people are buried in their Bravade costumes. The flowers are always red and white, the colors of Saint-Tropez, their village. There is also the celebrations of Saint Joseph, the patron saint of the boat carpenters, and also Saint Peter, the patron saint of the fishermen. All year long, whenever there is a baptism or a wedding, the locals file in procession to the chapel of Saint Anne, to pay their respects. In the 17th century, the seamen from Brittany prayed to Saint Anne, saying, “If you save us, we will build a chapel”. A great many people come here to confess. It is very moving. Look at this beautiful church, it is very much alive. Observe the lady who is cleaning the benches… It is early and all the canles are lit. That is the sign that a great many locals come here to pray. My life is full of the unexpected. From tears to laughter.



The Ponche


Saint-Tropez Colomb


L’Eclectique Société de presse Arts & Îles - Villa Barranco BP 85 - Clos des Marres - Route des Plages 8 3 9 9 2 S a i n t - Tr o p e z c e d e x tél./rép. : 0871 34 81 71 tél./fax : 04 94 79 14 59 c o n t a c t @ l e c l e c t i q u e . i n f o Directeur de la publication : J e a n - C h a r l e s C o u r c o t P h o t o - r e p o r t a g e - t e x t e : D a v i d V e r l a n t Conception graphique : Benjamin Courcot Traduction : L i n d a d e H a v i l a n d Correction : Aurélien Delph Publicité : G.S.C. Communication C a t h y D e c h a v a n n e s tél.: 04 94 41 09 33 fax: 04 94 41 21 17 c . d e c h a v a n n e s @ w a n a d o o . f r Impression-photogravure : L e s P r e s s e s d u S o l e i l P h o t o g r a v u r e d u C o m t a t Z.I. de Fontcouver te - Avignon Toute reproduction des photos et des textes, même partielle, est formellement interdite selon la loi 1957 sur la propriété littéraire et artistique. Dépôt légal : juin 2005

For Loup To mom, father in law and father To Geraldine


Merci à Dame nature d’avoir créé ton écrin, Merci aux hommes d’avoir conçu tes maisons, Merci à ceux qui ont su te protéger, Merci à ceux qui ont fait ta renommée, Merci à nos enfants qui continueront à te préserver. Merci à “Blanc Bleu” de nous accompagner. L’éditeur

Thank you to Mother Nature for having formed this jewel, Thank you for the men who have built your houses, Thank you for those who have know how to protect it, Thank you for those who have made it famous, Thanks you to our children who will know how to protect it. Thank you ” Blanc Bleu” for accompanying us on our journey. The editor