01 Twenty-eight campaigns and a storage problem

Between 1885 and 1915, Albert I of Monaco organised and led twenty-eight oceanographic campaigns. He was not a patron funding other people's expeditions: he sailed on them, designed sounding and collecting instruments, and published the results. Thirty years of continuous fieldwork produce a quantity of material that at some point has to be dealt with.

The solution was institutional before it was architectural. In 1906 the Oceanographic Institute was created, a foundation based in both Monaco and Paris, meant to study and disseminate all of it. The museum came afterwards, and its original function was not to receive tourists: it was to be the place where that material was kept, ordered and taught.

Historic black and white photograph of a large hall with a complete whale skeleton suspended above wooden display cases.
The cetacean hall around 1913: display cases, skeletons and campaign material. This is how the building was conceived from the start.Giletta / Wikimedia Commons / Dominio público·Public domain

02 Eleven years to build it into a cliff

The first stone was laid in April 1899 and the inauguration took place on 29 March 1910: almost eleven years of construction, designed by the architect Paul Delefortrie. The main facade does not begin at street level but down below, in the rock, and climbs eighty-five metres against the cliff up to the plateau where the old town sits.

That decision is the most eloquent thing about the place and is usually read as mere spectacle. Building vertically on a cliff face, in 1899 and over eleven years, costs far more than building on flat ground. It was done because the institution wanted to be literally on top of the sea it studied: the building does not look at the water from a safe distance, it comes out of it.

The museum from the coast: the ashlar facade continues downward until it meets the bare rock above the water.
From the water you can see where the cliff ends and the building begins. The seam is halfway up, not at ground level.Uhooep / Wikimedia Commons / CC BY-SA 4.0·CC BY-SA 4.0

03 What almost everyone skips

The usual visitor route runs downward: entrance, stairs and straight to the basement aquarium. It is understandable —the tanks are what shows up in photographs— and it leaves out the part that explains the building. The upper floors preserve an early twentieth-century natural history cabinet: floor-to-ceiling glazed cabinets, suspended skeletons, sounding instruments, specimens brought back from those campaigns.

A tall hall with columns, chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling glazed cabinets full of marine specimens.
The same hall today. A complete natural history cabinet, on the floor most visitors cross on their way past.Spike / Wikimedia Commons / CC BY-SA 4.0·CC BY-SA 4.0

Comparing a photograph of that hall around 1913 with one taken today is the best argument available: it has barely changed. What is kept there is not a museographic recreation, it is the original furniture and contents of an institution that is still running. The aquarium, for its part, is genuine and well done, but it is the most recent part and the one most interchangeable with any other aquarium in the world.

The aquarium could be in any city with a coastline. The upper floors could only have existed here.

04 Thirty-one years of Cousteau

Between 1957 and 1988 the museum was directed by Jacques-Yves Cousteau. That is thirty-one years, which is to say most of his public life and practically all of his most influential period. The fact tends to get mentioned as a prestige footnote, when it is really a piece of context: it explains how the institution moved from cataloguing the sea to trying to protect it.

Seen that way, the building holds two superimposed layers of the same idea seventy years apart. Below, the descriptive science of the late nineteenth century: measure, collect, classify. Above and around it, twentieth-century outreach: show in order to persuade. Grasping that turns a forty-minute visit into a two-hour one.

Two tropical fish with yellow and blue stripes swimming in front of a coral reef inside a lit aquarium tank.
The basement aquarium: the most visited and most recent part of the complex, not the one that explains why the building exists.Ismael zniber / Wikimedia Commons / CC BY 4.0·CC BY 4.0

05 How to visit so it makes sense

Four decisions that change the visit
  1. Go up before you go down
    Walk the historic halls and the terrace first, and leave the aquarium for last. In the reverse order, the tanks eat the time and the upper floors get skimmed.
    2 hours
  2. Look at the instruments, not only the animals
    The sounding gear, nets and collecting apparatus are the physical proof of those twenty-eight campaigns. They are also what you will not see in any aquarium.
    upper floors
  3. Check the date before you buy
    It opens every day of the year except 25 December and Grand Prix weekend. That is the easiest exception to overlook when planning a trip in May.
    closed for the GP
  4. Step out onto the terrace
    From the roof you grasp at a glance the building's position on the cliff, which is exactly what you cannot perceive from inside.
    85 m above the sea
The museum's main facade in pale stone, with pilasters, cornices and tall multi-storey windows.
The facade from the street: an institutional building of 1910, not a leisure pavilion. The scale announces what is inside.ALLIOT Brigitte / Wikimedia Commons / CC BY-SA 4.0·CC BY-SA 4.0

What tends to be misunderstood, then, is not the price or the opening hours: it is the nature of the place. At nineteen to twenty-two euros a ticket, plenty of people leave feeling they paid a lot for a decent aquarium. That is a reasonable conclusion if you have only seen the basement. Upstairs there is something else, and it is the reason this building stands where it does.

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Lucía Montes

Worth Knowing editor — Meaning & Cultural Context · Flowtravel

Lucía Montes interprets the cultural meanings that make a travel experience make sense.