Pretty in Paris

2011-12-13T21:09:00.002Z

Paris from the vantage point of a worn green lawn chair
Parisians use the Tuileries like a backyard
for barefoot picnics and lazy afternoon sunbaths.

I enjoyed the graceful, hollow-eyed dancers
of Mary Laurencin's canvases in the Orangerie.

2011-11-13T21:47:00.000Z

How Antibes Weathered the Storm

When the wind kicked up I walked down to the end of the street to greet the waves and my heart beat a little faster with each step closer to the sea. The old town is protected by ramparts, a good twenty feet tall in some sections, which wave crests surpassed pattering on restaurant terraces and the medieval facades. A wave could swallow me up in one lick, I thought, but I couldn’t pry my eyes off the violent sea. In a knee-length coat that caught gusts of wind I had to fight to hold my ground. With a strong enough umbrella I’m sure I could have traveled like Mary Poppins.

After a night of interrupted dreams when shutters hammer on windows, trees do backbends, and power lines are plucked like harp strings, things were relatively calm. With seaside roads closed by a layer of seaweed and branches, traffic stacked up on accessible roads. The weather continued in a pattern raging through the night but was well-mannered enough to abate come morning the whole week through.

The Cote d’Azur greeted by full November sun for the weekend began to assess damages. The beaches in Cannes and Juan les Pins got off easy ankle deep in sea weed. The restaurants that line the thin strip of beach operated unaffectedly serving full houses of sunglass clad clientele.

The beach in Antibes, however, more closely resembled a beaver dam, the sand hidden underneath branches. Trunks crowned by root canopies and logs as wide as car tires were stripped of their bark by the washing machine tumbling of the ocean. Many beachcombers walked back with arm-fulls of wood, some to feed fireplaces, others for artistic endeavors.

Amidst the carnage of the storm a faerie of driftwood forts has been erected that I’ve been to visit every day since discovering. I asked a brown headed ten year old on his hand and knees if I could enter. When he nodded yes I ducked inside and took a seat on a log. His mother explained, “We spent about two hours yesterday building the structure. When we came back this morning only a few of the logs had fallen.“ Her son continued to fence in a front yard burying the spear tips of snapped branches to stand perpendicular in the sand. Another little person was decorating a found playhouse with bits of plastic. “This is the kitchen,” he said as he gave me the tour.

I intend on making my own contribution to this collective work of art as the weeks wear on. Like all things ephemeral, there is a magic to not knowing how long the forts on the Pointeil beach will remain intact. It will undoubtedly take months to clear the debris.

2011-07-27T18:58:00.000+01:00

Madame Grès - Musée Bourdelle, Paris

2011-07-06T13:09:00.000+01:00

Luxembourg Garden Beehives

2011-06-14T13:13:00.001+01:00

Salon Décoration Jardin et Art de Vivre
June in Aix-en-Provence

2011-06-10T14:26:00.002+01:00

The Bataille des Fleurs Parade

Life on the Cote d’Azur breeds finicky habitants accustomed to warmth and sun in year round doses. The appearance of several clouds or a kicking up of the wind is reason enough to denounce the weather and call off beach plans saying, “Il fait pas beau.” But despite the rain a crowd had amassed in the main square with appendages that spilled out onto the cobblestone streets of Antibes.

Under awnings and umbrellas they awaited the Bataille des Fleurs, a parade that arrives in June like a right of passage into summer. Girls in lace up leather boots kicked in time with a marching band lead by Mickey and Minnie mouse in wedding white. At the head of the procession a brass section of aging Italian men in pink polka-dotted bikinis flirted with onlookers. Clowns and elephants rudely fashioned from carpets of flowers were pulled behind tractors. From these floats frilly-petalled carnations were showered on the crowd. A whole bouquet of roses that I caught by their thorny stems gave me a sense of why it’s called a battle of flowers.

My ear to eat smile outlasted the procession that wound its way down to the port where millionaires dock their yachts as I walked home with an armful of flowers like a pageant winner.

2011-03-04T15:40:00.004Z

houston's menil

In a residential neighborhood of wood frame houses and gnarled oaks stands the Menil Foundation. After leaving World War II France for Houston, comforts of the oil industry afforded John and Dominique de Menil to champion the arts nurturing a collection from the 1940’s to 70’s that would become their gift to the city. The museum opened in the 1987 was to be a place to contemplate art and cycle installations where “…works would appear, disappear, and reappear like actors on a stage. Each time they would be seen with a fresh eye,” because, Dominique de Menil said, “Habit blunts vision.”

Entering the museum I gravitate toward right wing dedicated to the Surrealists. More than a handful of Magritte’s canvases hang alongside works from Giorgio de Chirico, Max Ernst, and Man Ray. Even a still life personage arranged by Archimboldo is tucked away in a room of Surrealist paraphernalia like taxidermy birds and Katchina dolls. Inspired by the unity of opposites curio mingles with natural history.

Outside the museum at dusk a camp of bats was circling on the February night I found myself there.

2011-02-01T14:28:00.000Z

The Invention of Hugo Cabret – Book Review

Like so many other child protagonists who find themselves orphaned (James from James and the Giant Peach, the Baudelaire children in An Unfortunate Series of Events) Hugo has been entrusted to a cold extended family member. From his uncle he learns the art of winding the clocks encrusted in the walls of the Paris Gare de l’Ouest train station (where the Montparnasse tower now stands). When his caretaker fails to return to their bird’s nest hovel in the station, Hugo begins to tend to the winding. He hopes that nobody will notice anything has changed preferring the life he knows to the possibility of being uprooted again.

In the mean time he is determined to repair an automaton that he was able to salvage from the debris of the museum fire, the very machine his father was working on the night of his death. Hugo believes that the robot, poised with pen in hand, when mended will deliver a posthumous message from his father. Throughout the years he has filled the pages of his journal with notes and diagrams, observations and knowledge passed down from father to son, which he puts to practice working on the reparations.

Resorting to petty thievery he keeps himself fed on croissants swiped from the station café and pockets mechanical toys to amass the parts he needs to restore the automaton. Caught red handed, the shopkeeper seizes his journal and forces Hugo to repay his debt by tending the toyshop. From here the story unfolds as the shopkeeper’s niece Isabella becomes his friend and accomplice.

2010-09-12T19:09:00.000+01:00

Palais Royal

Les Journees du Patrimoine arrive soon after the back to school rush of la rentree. Come mid September secret gardens are opened and the public is invited to peek behind doors that remain closed the other 363 days of the year. As if a genie has granted an open sesame in Paris, many of the majestic old estates, hotels particuliers, and public buildings like the Palais Royal invite the public within to share in the patrimonial richness.

The lavish state rooms of the Palais Royal which once upon a time was the residence of Louis XIV now serve as constitutional and cultural office space. I relished details Bonaparte left behind like golden fingerprints and Henri Martin’s oil painting Agriculture, Commerce, Industry, Intellectual Work that the four walls of the General Assembly room wear.

To choose wisely which line you’ll stand in come the weekend of the 17th-18th of September visit the Jounees du Patrimoine site to consider your options. Here is what’s on offer in Paris.

2010-09-12T18:40:00.000+01:00

Inside the Palais de l'Elysee - Chez Sarkozy

A glimpse into President Nicholas Sarkozy and his model/musician/wife Carla Bruni’s home.

Inside the Palais d l’Elysee on les Jounees du Patrimoine the line snaked through gilded sitting rooms with french doors onto the sprawling green presidential lawn, and never ending stretches of table offered places for phantom dignitaries in the state room. Inside the salle des fetes the table was set with the Republique Francaise monogram china and goblets. Cranberry velvet curtains, tapistry patterned carpet and heaping sprays of roses or sunflowers rounded out the royal atmosphere.

2010-07-05T13:29:00.000+01:00

pompidou dreamlands

2010-04-28T10:10:00.000+01:00

Edvard Munch – The Anti-Scream

Munch was an artist inspired by literature and poetry but drawn to macabre moments of illness and death. The women wear ghoulish expressions, looking out from dark recesses of eyes where circles traced and retraced wear deep into the paper.

He painted alfresco amid the fjords and hills, mirror-like reflections in bodies of water later replaced with violent brushstrokes and buildings like cages when alcohol became his muse. Layer upon layer of each painting was a beginning from which coats were removed attributing a superimposed quality is to his work.

The Pinacotheque, caddy corner from the Madeline, is exhibiting Edward Munch’s oil paintings and wood gravure prints until July 18th.

2010-04-19T13:02:00.004+01:00

They Dance

I haven’t stopped since last Friday when Femi Kuti and the Positive Force performed in St Germain en Laye. For a week I’ve been dancing around my living room to the jazzy Afro beat. When a concert really sinks in by the end everyone is moving together, driven by the force of the music. And the waves that pulsed through the crowd are summoned even now as I listen.

When the Positive Force took the stage at the cozy black-box venue of La Clef they started slow letting the audience warm up with them. People are reserved in France, at restaurants they speak in whispers to avoid disturbing surrounding tables so it goes without saying they don’t dance much. Instead, when the music really speaks to them heads bob or feet are tapped to keep the time, however, they refrain from engaging shoulders or rears for fear of looking ridiculous.

The horn, guitar and keyboard players dressed in matching pastel polyester resembled a 70’s Caribbean band while the three ample-figured women singing back-up were clothed in tribal skirts of fringe, black of skin peeking out from sashes of bead and faces painted in dots and lines. Slowly led into the rhythm by their undulations to even the jazziest of birdsong the crowd was enticed to move.

When he laid down his horn and sung a sermon unfolded, of presidents with too much power, of the riches of Africa, of happiness. And why weren’t we happy in France, he wanted to know, always on strike. When the power was taken away from the kings we shouldn’t have stopped in our country because those same men still prevail in Africa today. “I want you to do something for me. I want you to do something for yourself. You better ask yourself why the richest continent get the poorest of the people,” he sang. “Al-la-la-la-la,” the call and the response.

I revelled in it all. Sometimes, in moments under wide blue of sky listening to the music of tree branch waverings I declare nature my church, but it was the music that spoke to me that night. He raised his voice and kept time with a hand that pumped fast as a piston. The climax of the night before the lights went down Beng, Beng, Beng. “She said love me, don’t stop. Don’t move too slow.” And we didn’t danced to a frenzy.

2010-01-31T18:56:00.005Z

James Ensor 1850-1949 Belgium

He didn’t enjoy comparisons to the Impressionists seeing his Expressionism as aloof, but thick slathers of beige sky framed seascapes that court the same distortion of line present in their work.

Canvases that mark the pinnacle of Ensor’s career: the macabre scenes of masked personages and skeletons represent an exaggerated reality of vanity and absurdity. They wore delirious expressions like the absinthe drunk of Lautrec and Van Gough’s canvases that radiate green and reminded me of the Grateful Dead’s album covers, all skulls and roses.

The masks, double edged, present one image when another lies underneath. In this incarnation his ego was protected from the criticism that wounded him. “I like these masks because they offended the public who received me so badly.”

I sympathised with his inability to take criticism. We are so quick to judge. Isn’t it enough to just have painted or written something for yourself?

2010-01-24T11:06:00.002Z

Erik Truffaz & Sly Johnson's - Sunday Afternoon Jam

In comfy theater seats on a winter's afternoon we watched as they wove a web of music. Traffaz's trumpet echoing Miles and the acid jazz of the 70's. Philippe Garcia laying down dub beats that changed everything. Layers upon layers, differnet loops were incorporated. Then Sly Johnson would begin and break the trance beboxing, singing soulful verses and scratching records in his mouth. Sunday bliss!!

2009-12-13T15:34:00.003Z

There is an urgency to the shopping on Boulevard Haussmann but outside Printemps, Paris’ oldest and largest department store, crowds assemble around each window. Russian stacking dolls open and close rhythmically, in the dead of the forest a table is laid in the finest crystal and women in beaded gowns promenade with fur coated animals. Amid the crowd, in repurposed shopping carts roasted chestnut are peddled by the cone full.

2009-11-15T16:41:00.003Z

The Costa Brava

tamariu

cadaques collioure

2009-10-11T21:26:00.001+01:00

We took the funicular up because she was feeling feverish. Inside the half-sized fridge a dish of tiramisu was waiting, “He made it with nutella,” she said. We perched on the couch eating spoonfuls. Time passed quickly. Night began to fall. Down the steps, traversing the graffiti adorned buildings, the carousel, and arriving at Abbesses, we exchanged kisses on the cheek.

2009-09-25T19:15:00.001+01:00

Who would have know we have the same best friend?

2009-09-13T13:14:00.000+01:00

Posted on the Desire to Inspire blog, some beatiful rooms from Caryn Grossman's studio, "an ever-evolving installation, a kind of bohemian Paris apartment."

I often dream up my ideal home constucted from their photos. www.desiretoinspire.blogspot.com

2009-09-06T16:17:00.002+01:00

bio brunch

Because Cheri is on a health kick I took him to brunch at le Pain Quotidien this afternoon to celebrate his birthday. On the menu was:

fresh squeezed orange juice
cappuccino for me, chocolate chaud for him
granola and yogurt
brioche, croissant or pain chocolate
a bread basket with accompanying raspberry and cherry jam or chocolate to spread
an œuf a la coque
and a salad with cheese and meat or salmon

There was so much food it wouldn’t fit onto our tiny window table so the waiter wrangled a chair for the overflow. Wedging savory between courses of sweet is my favorite way to brunch so I started with the pain chocolate, best ever!, then ate the salad and cheese and finished with yogurt and fruity jams on bread. Everything was organic and delicious.

The atmosphere is rustic and noisy. Large tables are shared between parties and the bakery sells breads and spreads to take. Arriving just before noon we beat the rush. Brunch runs 23 euros a head. I think I’ve found my new favourite resto!

http://www.lepainquotidien.com/

2009-06-07T17:21:00.001+01:00

Remedy for Springtime Blues

One stop at the boulangerie for a sweet snack in a paper sac.

One leisurely bicycle ride along the Seine.

Sunshine on my cheeks, frogs croaking, flowers in full bloom, worries dismissed.

2009-04-26T18:13:00.001+01:00

Hearing different languages, being introduced to cultures, acknowledging their values, and looking into people's eyes will change your outlook. To me the world seems a little smaller, my woes trivial in comparison to some.

6 Billion Others

The atmosphere at dusk inside the exposition resembled a fair ground, the Grand Palais illuminated in a candlelight glow by chandeliers dangling from long ropes of cord. I warmed my hands on a gifted cup of mint tea and settled on a wooden bench inside. Each of the dozen yurts posed a different question: What are you most afraid of? What is your first memory? How can you sustain love? Standing before the camera those people of the world seemed much like me. I marveled at the beauty of others that were terribly different and could have spent all day in the company of so many strangers.

An abbreviated version of 6 Billion Others available online. Invited to become a part of this social study, a web cam awaits your monologue. I scribed a first memory into the guestbook.
http://www.6billionothers.org/index_en.php

2009-01-10T12:11:00.001Z

With everything dusted in white, winter is for building snowmen and throwing snowballs but I'd rather be inside.

2008-10-27T12:34:00.005Z

I take pleasure in rifling through the contents of dusty old boxes, sifting treasure from trash. I’ve come to know family I’ve never met through photographs.

Specimen of years I wasn’t born to see, I admire their costumes and the mask of their expressions.

2008-10-27T08:31:00.005Z

Monday La Defense

exiled to the corner
window on the dusk
clouds hung like frothed milk

din of the coffee machine
cloaks jazz and conversation

green straws
whipped cream
a worn burgundy armchair

tea spicy and warm
a favorite indulgence

leaving bird's nest offices
suits patter by
pointy-toed italian shoes

girl by her lonesome
is this seat taken?

remember to avoid eye contact
he is eager to find an excuse
cheeks flush pink as my sweater

Cesar's Pouce

These sculptures have long since departed,

art in Paris, especially sculpture, being very transient.

2008-08-31T16:52:00.006+01:00

Fete de Ganesh

Shopkeepers swathe the parade route on Rue Philipe de Girard in garlands of flowers spelling out their welcomes to the elephant-headed Ganesh. As the god of wisdom he distinguishes good from evil and assures success to worthy enterprises. Here offerings of fruit and incense are sold on silver trays outside an Indian market.

Chanting and dancing in the streets, Hindou devotees from the temple Sri Manicka Vinayakar Alayam carry flags, wear totems of fruit and feather, and balance candles atop heads.

A medicinal smell is dispersed as women tear camphor leaves from the wreaths they wear to smudge in the flames.

Bare feet tread the rinsed streets of the Paris quartier "Little Jaffna."

Powdered spices paint a street mandala.

Outside shops selling gold jewelry and silken saris, makeshift altars are erected where clouds of incense smoke surround statues posed above piles of bananas and limes.

Ganesh leads the way.

Before his feet, piles of coconuts are smashed in the streets as an offering of heart. The round of the shell represents the world, the flesh of the fruit-karma, and water-the ego. The large shards are gathered and dispersed throughout the crowd to pick coconut meat from the shells.