Interview collected by Thierry Fedrigo for Le Républicain Lorrain, 29 September 2021.

Then aged ninety-four, Jean Dedieu had played a decisive role in bringing Jean Cocteau to Metz. The architect met the artist by chance at Picasso’s home. Together they forged a pact extending beyond death: Cocteau entrusted Dedieu with the realisation of his testamentary work, the stained glass of Saint-Maximin.

How did you come to work with Cocteau?

Jean Dedieu: We have to go back a long way. In the 1950s I worked mainly as a draughtsman for several architectural practices, including that of Robert Renard, Chief Architect of Historic Monuments. After the war, he was responsible for reconstruction and restoration in the Ardennes and Moselle, with several projects in Metz.

In that professional context I happened to meet the painter René Dürrbach on a beach at Cavalaire-sur-Mer, where I was camping. We ate sea urchins together and later discussed my work.

Dürrbach told me bluntly that Historic Monuments made dreadful choices whenever stained glass was commissioned. “Choose people of our time,” he said, “people like Villon or Chagall.” I found the idea very intelligent and spoke to Renard. We agreed on the principle. That is how Villon and Chagall came to make windows for Saint Stephen’s Cathedral in Metz. Everyone thought the result remarkable, so we continued.

Dürrbach also introduced you to Cocteau

Dürrbach knew Picasso and arranged a meeting. Picasso and Léger had been rejected for the cathedral by the clergy because they were communists, but we could offer Picasso the Basilica of Notre-Dame-d’Espérance at Charleville-Mézières.

In 1957 or 1958, I arrived at Picasso’s villa La Californie in Cannes with drawings of the Charleville church. There were around sixty windows, eventually entrusted to Dürrbach. Jacqueline opened the door. Picasso came forward, asked me to put down the roll of drawings without looking at it, and told me to have coffee with fifteen or so guests finishing lunch.

I never saw Picasso again. But among the guests I noticed Jean Cocteau. Seeing that I recognised him, he came over and said, word for word: “I too would like to make stained glass with you.” It was as simple as that.

That brief exchange proved decisive for Metz

Without the chance encounter, we would never have made the later proposals to Historic Monuments. The first idea was to bring Cocteau into Metz Cathedral, for a window in the north transept. It almost caused a scandal.

The clergy said no, and during the Historic Monuments commission one member declared: “Stained glass cannot be entrusted to a minor master.” Renard informed Cocteau. His reply, which I kept and framed, was cutting. André Malraux, then Minister of Culture, became involved and arranged for Saint-Maximin Church to be given to Cocteau.

Your collaboration began in 1961–1962

When Cocteau heard the news, he told me: “You must help me.” Because I painted, he came to my council flat to see my work. It evidently satisfied him and we began.

During his lifetime we worked on seven windows. His original drawings were only about twenty-five centimetres high and had to be enlarged to full scale. Cocteau was able to correct the first two. After his death, seven windows still remained to be produced. About forty drawings were passed on to me.

I managed to complete his work without attempting to impose an overall composition. My experience with the first windows had taught me what should and should not be done. For the colours, I respected those he had selected for the previous windows. I devoted two days a week to the project.

What do you remember of your closeness to him?

I was so passionate about the work that I never even thought of asking to be paid. Jean Cocteau was delightful. We had very amusing conversations and met at his house in Milly-la-Forêt.

When I arrived with the panels, we laid them on the floor. He might say, “We shall put a little more white there,” or ask, “Do you think the lead should go here?” We always ate lunch quickly and spent entire days working like that.

The last time I saw him was a few days before his death. We were restoring the colours on the second window, the Man with Raised Arms. He became unwell in front of me. He was wearing his famous white dressing gown. I saw him sway and collapse into a chair. His companion came to support him and led him away. That is my last image of Cocteau.