art^the lover’s house^(Mons) 10 THE ART OBSERVER July 2010 By Jonathan Drage THERE WAS  a seminal moment at the start of the decade when Richard Morris ended a fitful but long search for Le Minotaur, the house in Provence where Pablo Picasso lived, worked and died. Richard tells the story. “I have had a life long interest in Picasso - I guess almost an obsession. This stems from my days at art- college and one of my own tutor’s obsessions. I guess it’s not really Picasso’s work… I’d rather sit for hours in front of a Rothko than a Picasso…but the amazingly complex make-up of the man. I remember distinctly the news broadcasts in 1973 when Picasso died and a shot of him sweeping down the drive of Le Minotaur many years before in his Hispano Suiza. I have no idea what that occasion had been, but all the news channels used the same shot in announcing the story of his death. I worked in Cannes each year for a short time for several years and also visited that part of the world regularly on holiday with my family. And during those times I wandered around casually trying to find Le Minotaur. I also wandered around thinking increasingly that I would like to live in Var, I liked the sunshine, I liked the people and I liked having the spirit of Matisse and Cezanne and Bonnard and Monet and Renoir around me. And all the others! Then one day a final piece of detective work led me to that same driveway at Le Minotaur - overgrown, tangled and with grand iron gates which had been chained up since the great man died. I stood there and cried with emotion. The water lilies in MOMA, the Rothko’s in Tate Modern, the sun shining into Mackintosh’s garden room at Hill House. A handful of others had moved me to tears. Anyone who loves art and the context of art will understand that. And so I started looking for a house in Var. Two long years and dozens of houses later I was ready to give up…until Anick, my estate agent friend out there, said, “Just one more to look at,” three or four hours before my flight back to Manchester. Despite my protests Anick drove (in her French driving style) up the mountain to the village of Mons. We walked into a house in this mediaeval village that wasn’t exactly derelict, but was far from cared for. As Anick explained, a large family had lived there from the early sixties. The five kids had one by one moved to Paris and when the father had died years before his ailing wife had been left with the legacy of a large rambling maison village, five floors, three or four staircases and increasing disability. I wandered around quietly, instinctively feeling that this was the house I had been looking for. Provencale, real Provencale. A mess yes, but