Why I Skipped the Picasso Museum (and You Should Too)!

artwithelida
Oct 30
4 min read

Updated: Nov 16

It was my birthday—the actual day that I turned fifty. We planned to visit Antibes to shop at the open market and then peruse the Picasso Museum.

We were trying to be thrifty by using the train, but, after a fire alarm went off and a large French security guard yelled in his thick accent, “Lad-iessss, get out! Firrre! Get out!” we called an Uber. It was my birthday, after all, and we didn’t need to die before the day even started.

The driver dropped us off at the market and we ran around excitedly – running to the fresh veggies and artisanal treats, tasting little samples and snapping pics of everything. Markets in France are a treat to all of your senses!

Although I wish there had been more than just fresh fruits and veggies, like clothes and art and jewelry, it was still fun to explore. We had a little snack called socca, which is simply chickpea flour and oil baked in an open-fire oven, sprinkled with black pepper—and voilà, a tasty mid-morning treat.

We moved on throughout the city and stopped for lunch. I had a croque-madame—the one with the fried egg—and it was delicious.

Then, we glided along the sea and up the hill toward the Picasso Museum. When we got there, we noticed a line snaking around the whole building, filled with sweaty tourists wearing headsets and looking miserable. One look at that line and we all said, “I’m out.”

After seeing Picasso’s originals in various countries and museums, the idea of standing in line for hours to see more of his work just didn’t appeal.

Looking around, we noticed little art gallery signs scattered around the courtyard. One gallery featured an artist who painted only clouds—simple, dreamy, and beautiful. Another showcased statues of whimsical women wearing tutus made of crystal and semi-precious stones—a mix of bronze, rock, wire, and other mixed-media goodness. The allure of these fresh, living artists drew us in.

The shop we entered was unique—like a hidden cellar you’d find at your grandma’s house. The first floor was tiny, full of tightly juxtaposed sculptures and paintings that somehow created a harmonious visual appeal. Then we went down a small staircase to another floor, slightly bigger but packed with even more treasures—old furniture, intricate jewelry, and vibrant art.

Behind the desk stood a stunning woman, maybe in her mid-70s, who looked like a cross between Cher and Sophia Loren. Her skin was flawless, her big brown eyes sparkled, and she had a full smile of brilliantly white teeth. With her curly dark hair, black turtleneck, and a statement pendant that was clearly an art piece she made herself, she made an unforgettable impression.

We started chatting and learned her mother was Greek and her father was Ukrainian. She had never been married but was engaged for the first time to a man from Russia. She blushed like a schoolgirl when she talked about him.

When she found out it was my fiftieth birthday, she exclaimed, “Ohhh, fifty is so wonderful! You are so young. How lucky for you to be fifty!” She waved her hand over her shoulder as if brushing away the past but smiling at the memories. A look of longing and acceptance spread over her face, like remembering a dear relationship that was lost.

We chatted about our adventures and her artwork and life. She told us how she started making jewelry, which evolved into painting, and eventually into sculpture. Her work was so unique that you could pick it out anywhere and say, “That’s Elizabet.” Each of us picked out our favorite piece and joked about coming back one day to buy a large painting or sculpture when we were rich.

Sarah ended up buying a small painting of a girl with oversized legs, a bird, and sparkles all over. We were all secretly jealous. Christine bought a pendant and slipped it onto her gold chain. When she fastened it around her neck, it looked captivating.

I picked up a ring—unusual, with two tiger eyes, small diamonds, and iridescent pearl-like jewels set in gold on a thick band. I slid it onto my ring finger, and it fit perfectly.

Elizabet smiled and said, “Take it—it’s made for you, and it’s your birthday.”

I started to slide it off, thinking she was joking—it was a huge gift—but she placed her hand on my arm and insisted. I couldn’t believe it. Overcome with joy and gratitude, I put my arms around her neck and kissed her cheek.

We continued to talk and by the time we walked back up the stairs and out the door of Elizabet’s studio, I realized I had made a friend. I looked around the square at all the local artists creating and working every day, while just a few feet away, sweaty tourists waited in line for hours to take selfies with a Picasso.

I like to think we made the wiser choice.

Sometimes, we get caught up checking off items on the itinerary and overlook the hidden gems (pun intended).

On the street, we turned back one more time to say goodbye and ask for any advice on what artists like us should do next. We had planned to go to Saint-Paul-de-Vence, the well-known artist village nearby, but Elizabet told us about another place—a tiny village about twenty minutes away, near a glass factory. None of us had ever even heard of it, but we decided to follow her lead.

How glad we were that we took her advice!