Welcome back, and welcome to quite a few new subscribers - following on from my slightly (for me, anyway!) viral insta post - it’s lovely to have you here! It’s been a little longer than usual between editions, but there’s been plenty going on behind the scenes, and the usual dose of chaos here at Madame.

A reminder: all editions live on the Adventures & Ateliers website - as an existing subscriber you simply create a one-time login to access the full archive.

Let’s begin : )

Alethea x

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Yup, I missed an edition… but, for valid reasons, I think. I’ve been prioritising my A&A screen time (the headaches have been back again lately) on finishing the website, finishing The Renovation Companion, and rather excitingly (and terrifyingly) launching the Adventures & Ateliers YouTube channel. All of which has involved a bit more technical faffing than anticipated, bien sûr!

Anyhow, first up, two videos are now live:

It’s another way to tell some longer stories, and add more visual context.  If you’re a YouTube user, I’d be delighted if you’d subscribe to the channel and join the A&A community over there too : )

Autumnal havoc

Despite still being sunny and warm, we’ve definitely shifted into more autumnal weather here, and the annual leafblower versus leaf battle is ON!! Frankly, I don’t bother with leaves in the garden or paths - I read somewhere that they create natural compost - so great! However, with the two giant linden trees on either side of the main house plus the wisteria, the terraces around the house would all but disappear without some form of leaf manoeuvres.

There was also a mini-incident 🤦‍♀ with my first seasonal attempt in lighting the woodburner. I laid the fire, as per usual, only for the woodburner to fill up with smoke, spew it out of any gap and swiftly fill every corner of the house. Non-bon. Had I inadvertently closed the flue, used wet wood or done something else silly? Attempts to rectify the situation failed, and within minutes, all the smoke alarms went off accompanied by the far louder house alarm, swiftly followed by the nice invisible alarm people through the intercom: “Madame Clarke, avez-vous besoin des pompiers?”

The combination of billowing smoke, multiple alarms, harried intercom people and one terrified whining Romy (my dog) was not conducive to calm.

Having reassured one alarm man that all would be fine, I rushed about opening doors and windows, grabbed the leafblower (which was oddly living beside the bread oven, I don’t know why) and started trying to blow out the smoke. With the woodburner door now open, the wood chose that point to gain some fire momentum. Great. Yet the smoke continued.

As I grabbed the fire tongs to remove the bigger smouldering logs out onto the terrace, another voice appeared over the intercom: “Madame, il y a un feu? Faut-il appeler les pompiers?” No, no, all fine, I repeated. Throughout, the alarms continued, the dog’s whining became louder, and I was nowhere nearer to stemming the smoke.

Quite freaked out by this point, I stupidly decided in the moment to remove the remaining logs and kindling with the tongs. Why I didn’t put them into the metal bucket first, I do not know. Not my finest fire-safety moment, as in doing so embers dropped onto the wooden floor, cue mad stamping. Meanwhile, the new little ex-woodburner pile had decided to relight into a small fire on the terrace.

The third alarm person’s voice, a woman this time, possibly with a hint of exasperation, asked: “Madame, vous êtes sure de ne pas avoir besoin des pompiers?” All fine, I promised, just the woodburner, it’s nearly fixed…

Finally, the woodburner was clear with no new smoke. I hauled a dining room chair to silence the smoke alarms and relative calm was restored. I spent the next 20 minutes wandering around with the leafblower, inside, trying to move some of the smoke out on this still evening. However, it took some time for my heart rate to calm.

Nico, our lovely local fire expert, popped over the next day to check the chimneys again. All was fine, having only had their annual clean two weeks previously, no bird or anything had lodged itself in the intervening time. A test fire demonstrated that my smoke-fire was a one-off fluke, most likely due to some rogue non-dry kindling with a little too much moss.

A few years ago, I had had a good chuckle at a similar fire-lighting escapade my friends A and J had on lighting their new fire in The Hague. Confidently lighting their open fire for the first time, it took with great force (clearly, properly dried kindling!), the flames shooting up the chimney. Now, with neither of them having been boy scouts this caused considerable alarm, it was ‘too much’ fire. Panic ensued, the brandweer (Dutch fire brigade) was summoned, and The Hague’s finest strode into their living room, fire hoses at the ready, within minutes.

Then what happened, I asked, as this terrifying story was recounted. “Well, um, they told us it was perfectly normal and congratulated us on lighting such a good fire” came the slightly sheepish response.

Picturing the two of them rushing about fetching water, opening doors and windows when their fire was just doing as it should had always caused some mirth. But now, I feel that possibly I have no leg to stand on!!

Anyhow, the moral of the story - apart from ensuring extra dry kindling, and yes, actually using the metal bucket for log removal and not panicking - always keep a leafblower to hand inside : ) So useful!

Ps: the next fire I did was perfect!

Other random things:  

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For this edition, I’m delighted to share a guest post by Alexander Belyanin, who writes and curates stories about independent makers, artists, designers and small businesses, through his newsletter, tinyfound. 

His piece takes us along the French Riviera, exploring the history and contemporary makers keeping centuries-old craft traditions alive, starting with one of my favourite places, Biot. 

How we thought we were heading for a resort - and arrived instead in the world of French culture and tradition.

You don’t have to go looking for traditional French crafts in some remote corner, hidden villages, or after a long journey. You can find them right here on the French Riviera, not far from Nice.

Architectural flourishes, villas of the wealthy, ports and yachts – this is what the surroundings of Nice are known for, what catches the eye. And yet, alongside all this, there is something much simpler: craft. Traditions. A living history, shaped into beautiful, one-of-a-kind objects by skilled and cheerful hands. These things simply don’t fit the usual image of the place. They don’t stand out at first glance, and unless you know where to look – unless you make the effort to go there – it’s easy to miss them. And regret it later.

We didn’t miss them – because we knew, and because we were guided. We began in the small village of Biot, with the master glassblower Jean-Claude Novaro (below).

Glass

Biot – a small village between Antibes and Nice, just a couple of kilometres from the sea. Local potters have been known here since time immemorial, and glassmakers were already exporting their work by the early 18th century. These skills haven’t faded, haven’t dissolved into history or remained locked in the past. If you come here today, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed – the small shops and workshops are full of pieces that draw your eye in every direction.

We’ll tell you about one master.

Jean-Claude Novaro. The king of glassblowers. A remarkable man, deeply in love with his craft – you can see it instantly. He began working with glass in his early teens and by the age of twenty had already become a recognised master. He works with metal additives, with flecks of gold, constantly experimenting. He creates vases that absorb light during the day – only to release it again at night.

His works can be found in museums and permanent collections, and he shows us his diplomas with quiet pride – it matters when your work is recognised.

But with even greater enthusiasm, he shows us how he works. Jean-Claude Novaro is listed in the Guinness World Records as the glassblower who created the largest glass piece. He produced a monumental work for Nice Airport. His collectors include much of the French Riviera, Prince Albert II, Robert De Niro, Johnny Hallyday, Frank Sinatra, and dozens of other well-known names. He was once “lured away” by Arab sheikhs and opened a workshop in the Emirates, but eventually returned to his village. And with the same care, the same affection, he creates small, affordable pieces.

“He entered glass as one enters a religion.”

That’s how the French press wrote about him after his death. Yes, sadly, Novaro has passed away. The artist died on December 30, 2014, in Monaco at the age of 72. We visited more than ten years ago, and only now have I found the moment to write about it. How good it is when you manage to meet people like this. And how easy it is to miss them – out of ignorance, in a rush, or simply through carelessness.

There are still people like this in Biot. Perhaps not on the same scale – but with the same kind of passion. You still have time to find them.

Make sure to visit the Museum of History and Ceramics (Musée d'Histoire et de Céramique Biotoises), housed in the former Saint-Jacques hospital buildings. The exhibition tells the story of the village in a way that quietly draws you in. You’ll also find displays of traditional ceramics, along with the techniques and craftsmanship behind them. The museum complex includes a gallery of contemporary works, set inside the Chapel of the White Penitents, built in the 17th century.

In 1997, Biot was awarded the title “Ville et Métiers d’Art” for its bubble glass technique – a recognition that reflects both preserved traditions and a high level of mastery in a rare craft. Today, glass workshops, potters, jewellers, artists, decorators and leatherworkers still create and sell their work in the historic centre and around the village.

Ceramics

Vallauris was first mentioned in the 10th century as a possession of the Lérins Abbey, under the name “Golden Valley”. Located between Cannes and Antibes, by the sea, with more than 300 days of sunshine a year. This place feels almost too perfect – and yet it is also a centre of artistic ceramics, as well as home to the Sophia Antipolis technopark. Step by step, we move further away from the usual clichés of the French Riviera.

During his period of working with ceramics, Pablo Picasso chose Vallauris as a place to live and work. Here, people still speak of him not only as a genius, but as one of their own. It was here that he first began working with clay. During his time in Vallauris, he created many significant works – sculptures, paintings – and also explored and developed the technique of linocut. Picasso worked at the Madoura studio, which still holds the exclusive right to reproduce and sell his ceramic works.

For example, this woman once worked in his studio when she was young, below:

Ceramics here are everywhere – not just in memory, but in everyday life. Museums, exhibitions, and countless small shops. It’s part of the fabric of the town: in galleries, in workshops, in museum halls. Even the streets are lined with large clay pots.

A legend of French cinema, Jean Marais, discovered pottery and sculpture later in life. In 1980, he moved to Vallauris to draw, shape clay, and sculpt – and continued doing so until his death. A remarkable choice.

Many artisans don’t have formal shops, which means you can still come across truly one-of-a-kind pieces. And there are still quite a few of them. It’s almost surprising – how many people continue to make a living doing what they love, here on what feels like golden ground. But this is France. A house, a small plot of land, a workshop just beside it, a modest storage space…

That’s exactly the kind of place we were taken to.

Faience

Moustiers-Sainte-Marie. A place of almost unreal beauty. The Verdon Gorge, the lake, the mountains, the sky. You’ll find plenty of photos of the landscapes online if you’re curious – but that’s not what we’re here for.

A small warning: getting there isn’t easy. The best way is by car, though you’ll need to take care on the winding mountain roads. It’s a little over two hours from Nice – but what a two hours.

This tiny village once captivated Louis XIV – the “Sun King” – with its faience. When the cost of his wars forced the crown to surrender its gold and silver, even the tableware from the palace had to go. And he ordered it replaced with faience from Moustiers.

There aren’t many workshops here. I don’t remember the exact number, but it seems to be fewer than fifteen – and, importantly, it cannot grow. No new workshops can open unless one of the existing ones closes. These ateliers are all old: some a few decades, others well over a century.

These are the same kind of people who preserve the crafts of France – and, in a way, France itself. And France, in turn, preserves them. Over the centuries of making Moustiers faience, there have been secrets passed down, quiet rivalries, small intrigues. The craft evolved, the techniques refined. The world changed – but what needed to be preserved was preserved.

Each workshop has its own style. I imagine anyone – whether a homemaker, a lover of tradition, or simply someone drawn to beauty – will find something here that speaks to them. Something for their home. Or something to take away as a memory.

Along the narrow streets of Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, you’ll find countless small fountains with drinking water. In the village squares, there are old communal washhouses, where women once came to do their laundry.

Everything feels much as it once was – as in so many places along the French Riviera – streets where simply walking becomes a kind of quiet meditation.

On one shelf at home, I keep Novaro’s vases, a ceramic plate from the workshop where Picasso once worked, and faience cups not unlike those Louis XIV might have used.

By Alexander Belyanin, founder, tinyfound

More Snapshots of the Domaine Les Plonges ‘journey’ next edition.

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