The third hidden.

In the few hours remaining before returning to London on the Eurostar, I had made a reservation to visit the former apartment of Le Corbusier on 24 rue Nungesser et Coli, which is now maintained by the Le Corbusier Foundation.  It was most fortunate that it was open, as it is only available for viewing on one day a week, and even then, with advance reservations.  But, knowing my own character and my interest in making such pilgrimages, I planned this far in advance- unlike my many other spontaneous diversions in and out of town and country.

Now, having been a Le Corbusier aficionado for years now, greedily absorbing all the information and books and images related to the Master, I was well acquainted with all the nooks and crannies of his space- but what immediately struck me upon visiting, with a striking sadness, was that he was no longer among us.  Of course this is common knowledge, but to see a place such as this, where he lived and worked, and which lives on in photographs where he is alive and working, but without so many of his things- whether it be paintings, brushes, papers, books, small objects collected on his travels, et cetera- it is plainly clear that something is very much missing- that this is in fact a museum of the dead, and that Le Corbusier no longer lives there, perhaps even in spirit.  But what remains, remains- and his hand is everywhere.

his bed, not slept in for years.

a dash of brilliant and ever changing color.

painting studio- no paintings.  even the smell of paint has faded.

the desk where he sat and worked.

in the lobby, the Poem of the Right Angle.

his signature.

The second hidden.

Following on the Villa La Roche, I had with a great deal of enthusiasm and a certain amount of stored up regret (from not seeing it when offered a chance to be driven there from Switzerland, no less) the pleasure of visiting the Villa Savoye.  Now, even in the years that passed when I looked at photos and books related to Le Corbusier (of which I have a good number) and even of the Villa in specific, there did not seem to be any real allure.  Alas, I knew very well in the back and front of my mind that I needed to visit the place in order for me to begin to understand some of its many secrets.  Of course, this was true.

Rather than write something about the place, I thought I would offer up a story of getting there.  As to be expected, we departed from the center of Paris, the center being where tourism occurs in this case and where one of the two hotels that we stayed at was located, and it seemed an easy way to get there.  Indeed it was, if one accounts for the lengthy (perhaps 45 minutes?) ride on the RER train (sort of a subway line) into the outskirts of the city, followed by a short bus ride (about seven stops, if memory serves correct, which it usually does in such instances).  The best part about finding the bus is that upon arrival, I with my trusty written directions (written by myself on hotel stationary, of course) was looking around like the proverbial tourist and the people there (one woman and an employee of the bus lines) knew right away what I was there for.  Not only did they point me to the place I had to wait for the bus, but I was provided with a bilingual map of how to get there and back.  Getting on the bus proved a fun experience too, as it was abundantly clear that aside from myself and my partner, there was only one other person (a daft looking older architectural student and possible architect) who looked totally out of place.  Right before my stop, the elderly woman behind me tapped my shoulder, smiled and said "Le Corbusier" (pointing to where I should get off, and where the Villa Savoye was).

And, then, through the gate, and a short walk through trees, and there it was.

The first hidden.

Ever since realizing, while in France over a decade ago during my rather uneventful period of "study," that Le Corbusier is one of the few masters of modern architecture, I have been wanting to see more of his buildings- which is no easy feat as I had returned from Europe and only one of his works is in the United States, namely that of the Carpenter Center at Harvard, and perhaps another if one accepts the idea that the United Nations scheme was initially conceived by him (and, which I can imagine, to some extent, if by looking at earlier drawings).  When going to Japan, I was able to see his National Museum of Western Art, but that was really a collaboration of sorts with Japanese architects- where the master's hand was only seen and felt in the main exhibition space and in none of the other cookie cutter areas.  So, the recent visit to Paris allowed me to take in some of his work, places that I had not seen before because I had not yet fallen under his spell.

I will say that the reason that most work seemed attractive to me at the time- and this was many many years ago, so you must indeed forgive me my youthful trespasses- that I was entirely enamored of photographic representation.  That is to say, the photograph when taken well was the ultimate magic- trickery of the worst sort, in fact, to draw one's attention from the reality of the thing itself.  In such a fashion, I and my friends, classmates at the time, were lulled into believing in the false god of photography and by assuring ourselves (amongst ourselves, of course) that the great architects of the moment (or, of the contemporary, which is a more accurate and damning twist of phrase) were almost all (with the exception of Peter Zumthor) merely charlatans of form.  I would have to say that going to Vitra, which was a collection of at the time famous "architects," set the wheels in motion for a re-evaluation of what I had held to be true.

So, it is no wonder, then, that Le Corbusier was not served well by the cause of photography.  Some of his work looks dated in the bad sense of being so, while others were outright boring.  A glance at his plans revealed nothing.  Alas, as in my visit to La Tourette- the one defining work in my memory of architecture (not "buildings"), I saw that only a visit to the work, and of Le Corbusier in specific, could offer up what was so well hidden, and often in plain sight.

No description follows- only some photographs, of Villa La Roche.

Visiting a Bear (but not just any old bear).

Although I was unable to see either Charles or Sebastian when I visited Brideshead, an absolute shame by any standard but which absolutely could not be helped for the many reasons, I was most fortunate to go visit the home of another member of the Brideshead family- Aloysius, who is now at the Teddy Bears of Witney store near Oxford.  Thanks entirely to my old classmate and good friend E. who drove us there, or otherwise it would have been a most trying effort to see good old Aloysius- although, truth be told, even if I had to walk there, I would have done so.  Yes, Aloysius is that much a part of my own interest in things.

Upon arriving at the shop, it was glorious to have two very enthusiastic shopkeep (Gill and Helen) talk to us about the many bears in the collection (both for sale and on display in the museum or in the showcases), but, really, seeing Aloysius (the Aloysius of the original series, not his junior replica in the film) was truly a sweet and unforgettable experience.

I've Been There.

Brideshead has, since a viewing of the original series and the new version they made of it a few years back, held a certain charm and sad nostalgia that has been lingering in the back and front of my mind.  So, it was most certain that I pay a visit to the original location for the filming- Castle Howard in York, which was almost derailed because I could not find a way to get there on the day planned.  Fortunately, the extreme pleasure of the spontaneous lifestyle is to be absolutely at ease when things do go wrong (as they often do) and I had but to wait one more day and there was convenient (enough) transportation to take me to that mysterious and haunted place.

Words would be utterly useless to describe the place, even if Proust himself did it.  Photos, too, have their very many limitations even on the best of days, so what appears below is but a very modest representation of what I saw.  In particular, the Temple of the Four Winds (where Charles and Sebastian drink wine one evening) was for me a special highlight that neither word nor image could possibly convey an adequate impression, and the fact that the sky had become downcast and it rained down in a melancholy drizzle added to the sentimental mood.

As if Brideshead actually did exist, and these were not the ruins but rather what was left when all the people long faded into the twilight distance.

not a postcard but very much a dream if i am allowed to use that word

i could hear their echoes as they rushed to bathe in sunlight

it grew dark, ever so dark as i walked towards them.

no charles, no sebastian, no wine- only myself, looking into emptiness.

That row of books

Memory never being what it actually was, my return to London after a decade (a decade and a half, really, if one counts the time I was there for my final days of "study"), I had surely misjudged Charing Cross bookshops.  In fact, I felt that there were some more than what I did visit (on two occasions, try as I might to squeeze them into busy times), and I was trying to match my own memory with what I had remembered- in particular, of two underground/basement level spaces.  What I saw was an abbreviated version of what I had lodged in my mind, and, even worse, I was unable to find anything good to take home with me.

Come to think of it, there was one art bookstore in particular on that street, where I saw the Derek Jarman garden book for the first time.  Since then, it's always popped up in my memory- the book, not the store.  And, most definitely, that place is no longer.  Perhaps, it moved to another location, but no matter.  Time's time.

A joke is that there is a Chinese massage parlor, of all things, on the block.  But, perhaps even worse of an affront is that the site of 84 Charing Cross, the bookshop profiled in Helene Hanff's book, is now proudly occupied by what seems to be a busy Pizza Hut chain.

The death of print is becoming no exaggeration on this street of streets.

A Security Breach

In the fine halls of the Musee d'Orsay are an infinite number of delightful works, but there was one in particular in one of the side rooms which I found particularly attractive- so much so that I wanted to disregard the no photography rule and snap some shots (although, at the end, I did not).  What was even more humorous is that when I returned to look at it a little later on, there was someone with camera (phone) pressed close to the painting and I thought, how bold this person was.  When I took some steps back, I realized that the person in question was the security guard for that particular room (or set of rooms).  This is perhaps the first time that I have seen somebody who works in the atmosphere of the museum take any keen interest in the work itself, and, well, in this particular case (Chrysantemums in a Vase) by Henri Fantin-Latour (he whose work adorns the New Order cover as designed by Peter Saville), I couldn't well blame her.

Not taken for a ride.

Before returning to the many posts on the UK and France that have yet to emerge, I will add yet another diversion- this time, in the case of the New York Transit Museum which I happened to visit the other day.  Having only ever gone there once, on a school trip that many years ago, my memory was quite dim of what lie in store beyond old subway trains.

Struck first with its clever entrance and then soon realizing that the museum itself was a former subway station (Court Street, used in I believe the 1930s to 40s, and then so only for a decade), I proceeded to the ticket counter (an original token and information booth, as I was told).  Following through on a self guided tour of the two level space, I was struck when I saw that there were some display objects that were things of the future when I first went there on the first visit.  The obvious realization that time flies, and does so ever so quickly, leaving one behind...

Nostalgia and a certain sadness at tempus fugit in general soon gave way to an innocent interest in things of the past, but they were not overwhelming (as the case was at the phenomenal National Railway Museum in York) and the experience was akin to a schoolchild's visit- rather light in presentation, one could touch most things and it was as if the former train station were a sort of an underground playground.

But, what fun, though, going in and out of the old subway cars (dating back to the early part of the 20th century), and the best part of it was that there were no smelly bums, pathetic beggars, "musicians" or "dancers", discarded food items (say from McDonalds), the smell of fried food in the air (linked with the previous complaint), noisy music blaring from headphones and the like which among other things give New York subways their dubious character.

the entrance.

of the future when I first visited, and now of the long dead past.

one of the subway cars which will go nowhere but here.

two token machines similar to stamp vending units, also from the past.

a simple map for those going downtown.

1894 on the right, when tickets were taken by machine (and watched over)

The cycle that was part of Sunday

Rather than writing some sentimental drivel about yesterday and today, which were anniversaries of no importance to anybody but myself and Other Half, I will touch upon some seriousness and/or humor that entertained (rather than educated) me this weekend.

I found myself at the Rubin Museum of Art, which is dedicated to the art of the Himalayas and such regions.  Now, you will know from my blogs that not once have I touched upon that world, and surely I would not had it not been Museum Day, where admission is free.  Well, I thought, why not go take a look see and peek at what is hidden inside- as I have passed it ever so many times when looking at the two thrift stores on that very street.

What struck me upon mid-entrance was the ground level space, a bit "oriental" in design, but not in an unpleasing manner.  The smells wafting through air (as there is a cafe/restaurant on the floor) were of scents that were on the tip of my tongue (not literally, though) and also of imagined places.

Making my way through the collection, I have to say that with brand new eyes that have almost no experience of looking through the kind of things collected, that there was a great assortment of things to look through.  But, as to whether I am sympathetic to the beliefs depicted so vividly, well- let me just show some of the images that sparked my curiosity.

A warning, perhaps, of things to come.

Truly hellish.

the center of the cycle of life.

That's got to hurt.

Note the fellows holding giant candy corns on top of their head.

Reminds me of the Shogun Warrior "Raideen" that I wish I still had.

A bouquet opens, and others lie awaiting

It being the weekend, and despite having many things to post up which I haven't made time for, I thought that I would backtrack a little (for very good reason, or at least I think so) and touch upon the matter of sweet things ever so quickly.  This evening, after dinner, Other Half wanted to have some more of those Laduree macarons which I had no interest in at all, but I tried a bite of one and it made me think a very interesting thought- that I was eating perfume.  So, I tried another bite and then another one and it was absolutely enchanting.  There is no scent to the macaron and it looks very much like any other, but the beauty of it is that it reveals itself in its bouquet after tasting.  A quick jog of memory made me realize that it was the rose petal flavored one, and I must say that I highly recommend it.  As a matter of plain fact, I may well go and get some more very soon- for myself.

Not to have bored the reader with two posts related to macarons in such a short time, I would also offer the following images of the stash from England and France, all purchased not from the usual places (Harrods' food hall, Fauchon et cetera) but rather from the more ordinary and much more interesting aisles of the local supermarket.  Eating what the real people eat is a fun (and inexpensive) way to literally get a taste of what people have.

from france

and from the UK

And, now that that's done, it's time for a spot of tea.