Following in the footsteps of my grandfather, my parents became art dealers and opened their first gallery in Paris in 1956. I was then only a year old. But from as early as I can remember, my parents divided their time between our home in Paris and my grandparents’ house just outside St-Paul-de-Vence, a small village about 12 kilometres inland from Nice. The village was built on a rocky hilltop, so one of the first things

I remember about coming here was my father driving up this winding road, with woodland all about us, getting higher and higher. When we got there, we would then stand in front of the house and look out over the red rooftops below and the sparkling blue sea in the distance.

By the time I was seven, I had two younger sisters, Florence and Yoyo, and we’d spend many of our holidays at St-Paul. With so much sunshine in this part of France, we spent most of our time in the garden. Only to us, it was no ordinary garden, it was a children’s paradise. In spring we’d crouch by the pond, watching for tadpoles; in summer we’d search for wild strawberries. In one part, there were pineapple and banana trees, in another, olive and lemons; in fact it was huge — maybe six hectares — with paths in all directions and flowers dancing along the edges, filling the air with their scents. One of my favourite pastimes was to go in among the rose bushes collecting petals that had fallen to the ground. We were forever inventing our own fantasy worlds — shrubbery would turn into caves, brambles into gateways and trees into castles.

As well as a small vineyard, my grandfather also cultivated cactus plants, so he was always wandering around the garden in the evening, tending to them, often with friends who would come to stay. One of those was Monsieur [Georges] Braque — he’d been a witness at my parents’ wedding. As well as the summer, he’d spend a couple of months with us in the winter. He was a tall, elegant, elderly man. My first memories of him are probably from when I was five or six, when I’d find him sitting in the garden with a little sketch pad. I was always intrigued by how long he’d look at one thing, whether it be the shape of a tree or the texture of a plant. He’d be there for hours. Joan Miro would come to stay too. My grandparents had built a printshop in the grounds, so he’d spend the summer working in there, day in, day out, on his etchings and lithographs. When he was finished, he’d bring them out and lie them on the grass so he could look at them all together.

Another artist I was very fond of was Alexander Calder. He was a big American man, and it was easy for us as children to connect with his moving sculptures — or mobiles, as they became known — because they looked so playful and colourful, and would come to life no matter how small the breeze. I also loved his wire sculptures of animals like cats, birds and spiders. And one year he gave me a present of utensils he’d made. He knew I was a fussy eater and rightly guessed that I’d be so excited about using them that they’d encourage me to eat my food. He was right.

In the summer, it wasn’t unusual for there to be 10, 15, even 20 people joining my family for dinner. Many were artists such as Miro, Calder, Giacometti, but there were also writers and poets like Prévert or Reverdy, and singers like Ella Fitzgerald. Eating, drinking and talking would go on well into the night and, if we were lucky, we’d be allowed to stay up well past our bedtime.

It was only much later that I realised this was an incredibly important time for my family, as in the early 1960s my grandparents had decided to set up a foundation dedicated to all the artists they’d worked with and continued to work with. Not only that, but they’d decided to build it here, rather than in Paris. Of course, we soon realised from the building work that started to take place that their plans were going to encroach on our special garden, but we were reassured that we were going to gain something very special in its place.

Many of the artists I knew were involved — Braque set about creating a huge mosaic floor for an outdoor pond, Miro designed a sculpture garden, and Giacometti was given a courtyard overlooking the sea to exhibit his tall men and women. In the summer of 1964, when I was nine, it was complete. A huge party was organised, and my grandparents gave me and my sisters the role of presenting the keys of the foundation to André Malraux, then the French secretary for culture. Looking back, that period of my life was filled with many special moments. And I will continue to treasure every one of them.

Miro, Calder, Giacometti, Braque: Aimé Maeght and His Artists is at the Royal Academy of Arts, Piccadilly, W1 until January 2. Tel: 020 7300 8000

Interview: Ria Higgins.

Photographs: Sam Holden

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