A courtyard of dappled shade, the sound of gravel underfoot, then the silence of rooms filling slowly with color. This summer, the Hôtel de Caumont in Aix-en-Provence offered a passage into a menagerie—not of nature, but of memory and myth.
Within it, Niki de Saint Phalle’s Bestiaire Magique unfolded like a fable. Not linear. Not tame. A story told through dragons, birds, serpents, and women who could fly.
( The Creature as Cipher )
Not all animals live in forests. Some come from dreams. Some from wounds. In this exhibition, the animal becomes a symbol—mutable, luminous, and strange. Each room offered its own rhythm: a serpent coiled in redemption, a bird with mosaic feathers extended in motion, a dragon whose posture recalled both guardian and monster. Through these figures, something opened. Biography passed through allegory. Anger softened into shape. Sorrow glittered into tile.
( A Vocabulary of Forms )
Nothing here stood still. Even in sculpture, movement lingered. Paint spilled over rounded bodies, bold and tender. Materials clashed and danced—mirror, ceramic, polyester, bronze. In one gallery, a Nana arched her back toward the ceiling, defiant and weightless. In another, a spider waited in quiet dominance. Each work resisted stillness. Each one insisted on being seen from all sides, like a sentence read aloud rather than on the page.
( The Myth Reorganized )
Saint Phalle did not borrow myths. She rewrote them. Here, the monstrous was not to be feared but understood. The sacred was not hidden but worn brightly. Femininity grew claws, wings, and armor—but laughed often. At times, the viewer remembered tarot. Or ancient bestiaries. Or childhood drawings. But none lasted. Each association dissolved into something more singular. More her. More creature than metaphor.
( The Mechanical Breath )
Toward the end, in the open light of the garden, one figure moved. Le Monde—a globe balanced on a single Nana leg—turned slowly. The mechanism was visible. The poetry, less so. Nearby, Le Poète et sa Muse stood still but carried flight in its limbs. Paint, gesture, and shadow met in a space between sculpture and machine. The viewer watched. The figure breathed. Something opened.
( Fly Over )
The rooms faded into sunlight again. A city waited just outside—noisier, flatter. But the bestiary lingered. In remembered shapes. In colors beneath the eyelids. In the feeling that symbols still walked beside the living.
Perhaps, somewhere in Aix, a dragon still watches.
For those wandering south before October’s turn: follow the curve of Rue Joseph Cabassol. Enter quietly. Let the creatures speak.
Here is the link to go enjoy this colorful artistic experience.