The Art of the Swimming Pool, HTSI, FT Weekend, March 2020
“The pool as a literary, cultural and artistic inspiration”
An adapted extract from Stoppard’s book ‘Pools’ (Rizzoli) exploring the swimming pool in visual culture and the appeal of hotel pools.
Published in HTSI magazine, FT Weekend, 27 March 2020
Extract
On an achingly hot Tuesday in July last year, the pool at La Colombe d’Or in Saint-Paul-de-Vence, in the south of France was, as always, 27 degrees. The consistency in temperature is advertised by a small metal sign below the hotel’s reception booth.
There are many beautiful pools in the world, but a strong contender for the loveliest is this one. Notable both for the perfect hue of its green tiles and the Calder mobile that overlooks it, sitting inches from the edge of the shallow end and which gracefully turns as holidaymakers swim – the setup is popular Instagram fodder for guests such as myself.
Inside the hotel, artworks by Picasso, Matisse, Miró and Chagall are scattered as if insurance matters are meaningless: gifts from the artists to the hotel’s founder, Paul Roux, a Provençal farmer who, in 1920, opened what was once a small inn and restaurant.
Outside, guests arrange themselves with precision; the process of selecting a pool lounger – dark wood, furnished with an orange cushion – is key to the enjoyment of the day. There are just under 50 loungers, ordered neatly around the water. Two sit each side of the Calder, but are prone to dampness due to splashes from the shallows. By breakfast time on this particular day, nearly all the beds had been claimed with books as guests staked out their spots – some had nipped down from their rooms in dressing gowns to hurl something on a bed before heading in for coffee. By the diving board was a copy of The Great Gatsby, a book in which the pool is full of symbolism – a looming reminder of the emptiness of wealth, the illusive nature of fulfilment. On another lounger sat a lightly thumbed copy of On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong.
Guests arrived in floral kaftans, heeled wedges, Prada boat shoes. The famous ones wore the largest sunglasses. By 10am, only eight beds hadn’t been claimed. The pool boy, barely a teenager, paused between collecting Diet Coke orders and supplying towels to read Oliver Bowden’s Assassin’s Creed. In the water, three Swiss children played a frenetic game. A twentysomething in a green bikini arranged her summer reading, Lisa Taddeo’s Three Women, on top of an Apple statue by the Swedish sculptor Hans Hedberg, snapping pictures on her iPhone. Out front, lunch had begun. Waiters oscillated between reverence and rage as they struggled to comprehend the whims of diners. “Plus de pain!” “Rien?” “Tarte de la mère Roux!” It was a familiar dance, a daily tussle, a great performance. Beyond the bar, a small rope cordoned off the pool.Later, as I floated on my back, looking up at the sun, an elderly man in striped shorts entered the water with a mask and snorkel. He swam determined lengths, his arms smacking the water like landing salmon. His partner, a timid woman, stood near the steps, hesitant. “Come on,” he goaded, pausing between lengths. “It’s fine once you’re in.”