MUSEE BOURDELLE

Son of a weaver and carpenter, Antoine Bourdelle's work is bred from intricate talents. From humble beginnings, he left the Ecoles des Beaux-Arts in Paris (which he entered after eight years of tuition in Toulouse) after two years, neither interested nor understanding of the need of prizes and competitions. Creation of beautiful things was in his blood. It is the work of this sculpture that brought me to 16 impasse du Maine today, once his studio. Hidden behind the ever chaotic Boulevard du Montparnasse, it's a surprisingly quiet haven, showcasing his generous, brilliant, honest, distinctive work and space. Feeling somewhat blinded by the array on display, the thought of noting down the pieces that stopped me in my tracks passed me by (shame, I'll have to visit again).

Visiting early afternoon on a Wednesday was bliss, I saw maybe five other people wandering round, often being just the sculptures and I in the room. I was able to listen to the quiet and imagine the peace being infiltrated by the hammering of stone, sighs of a frustrated artist and the blaze of the cast iron stove. The studio is particularly astounding, having been left in its original state, down to the position of the table created by his father and the turntables showing off the works, allowing you to wind and weave yourself through this grandly lit place that feels so intimate.

It is equally inspiring to step outside to the courtyard garden. Though north facing and surrounded by high walls on all but one side, the light remains dappled and free moving, rather perfect for the bronze sculptures situated here, which are somewhat hidden amid the sprawling ivy and foliage. It's a sensual and mysterious area in the heart of the labyrinth of studios, nature's best plays in to the space so beautifully, gives the work a platform, a stage. The theatre of art, the calmest kind - for the observer.

I should have really taken a seat and lost myself a little but that nausea was in my throat that I feel when I am itching to write and document something, my eyes moving too quickly trying to frame photographs that I often miss capturing anyhow. My stride is purposefully slow and long, that common gallery viewing amble, and I calmly stroll towards the vibrant white modern extension of the museum that houses a plethora of work - some showing the influence of Rodin, having been a student of his, and others give way to Bourdelle's desire to escape from that certain style. White walls upon the harsh green grey of the concrete allow bronze sculptures to stand bold, and as the light pores in from above prominent scores, marks, features are alight in stone.

Each and every thing is beautifully made and placed and with the opportunity to literally put your hands on some of the pieces is quite magical. Running fingers across hatched markings, the muscle of a horses neck in bronze and the ragged hair of a worker - all cast, moulded and fabricated by a set of hands - the labour of this kind of work hit me and it allowed me to have a whole new level of appreciation for it.

Musée Bourdelle is another treasure, in fact a place I have lusted over for some time, and being there gave me a content feeling, that satisfaction of doing something that I wanted to do, for me. But I was also humble, to be surrounded by such craft and fine tuned aesthetics.