Mon cher Marcel (twice)

Although it is a downright shame that I have not completed La Recherche (the name which I overheard a group of schoolchildren recognize in front of the portrait of Marcel Proust at the Musee d'Orsay)- being near the end of the fifth book, it is still with a great deal of enthusiasm and excitement that I went to visit the Musee Carnavelet and the Cimitere Pere Lachaise, for in the former was assembled some of the furniture from the various places that Proust lived (though arranged in a somewhat haphazard manner, given the space), but which still gave off a quiet air of mystery.  In particular, I was drawn to the dark blue silken fabric, of which a small piece was cut by the owner (who, in the book Proust's Overcoat, we are made to understand was crucial in hunting down and preserving material fragments of the great author's life). Also, while it is not easily seen at all, there is quite an indentation into the chair, leading one to imagine the countless hours spent by the master sitting there, whether dreaming, writing, thinking or perhaps sleeping.  This was followed later on by a late day (near closing time) visit to Pere Lachaise, that final resting ground for many of the "famous" (many now forgotten by time)- among whom Marcel Proust was one of the legion of the dead.  There he was, underneath the black slab, no indication of who or what he had done, and just his name- accompanied by some withered flowers and a small stone, to which I added my own (having learned that in the Jewish tradition, that a stone is left on the grave, despite my often wondering whether Proust ever considered himself to be of that tradition, and guessing that he could probably never resolve it one way or the other), but, religion or otherwise, faith or not, the true faith he had was to be a writer, and in this respect, his name shines for me, mocking the idle life that I lead and wondering when I am going to write something "serious" myself.

dear, dear, dear Marcel...

to whom I add a stone and a kiss

Shared Table and Choucroute

Now, you know me, or at least a lot about me, but one of the most obvious things is that I don't get too excited about in general are things related to eating and drinking.  Such was also the case when I was in Paris again, hardly giving any care to the multitudes of potentially great places that exist for chowing down and boozing. So, if I did have to choose, I consulted my two handy guidebooks (sometimes I bring three, just in case), and there was a recommendation for a place which had a kind of old fashioned fare but which more importantly was inside a historic designed location. If anything, it is always Atmosphere which I am on the prowl for, and this is what landed me at the restaurant Chartier (in an area a bit further from the "aristocratic quarter" which I have come to know and love).

From the get-go, it was an interesting but strange experience.  Although there were other empty tables, we were seated at a table where there was an already seated couple.  When I asked for water, they pointed to the bottle on the table and said that "sharing is the policy here,"(a point which I shared with the Italian couple seated next to us, who were somewhat surprised at my pouring water from their bottle) and I admit that because of my pretentious nature I did dislike the cafeteria style of the place (and seemed a bit overdressed, suit and tie being not de rigeur there).  But, as we had some wine and saw the place fill up, the place started to grow on me a little with its paper menu (upon which one's order was written and then tabulated at the end) and its train station like atmosphere (including the overhead racks for one's bags, coats and etc, and it was quite enjoyable to have my beloved Alsatian choucroute again (last time was at Lipp, the other institution).  By the time we left, there was such a long line to get in, it reminded me of getting into a nightclub in my earlier years (although truth is they always let me in easily, perhaps because I was a charming young boy then) or Acme Oyster Bar in New Orleans on a weekend.  Seeing that made me really glad that I prefer to have supper early...

Frozen Time Frozen Day

It's been a bit of a long week, with thoughts of this and that running through and wreaking havoc on my sanity, zen state and idle life, and it was hard to put words into play in general and especially in specific (utterly at a loss to write a poem), so the updating of these posts has been perhaps slightly half baked and less on point than usual.  As you may have seen, I have been doing little snapshots of the recent trip to the Continent.

I will have to say that in general, I do not like taking photographs of people, or seeing people in photographs, although when it becomes part of my own history or based on a kind of nostalgia, it is all right.  These two I offer up are from the Jardin des Luxembourg on a particularly frozen day, but the warmth of being in Paris again easily made up for any cold.

Old Pals and Newspapers

Strolling down the streets not quite flaneur style but approximating it, the eye caught sight of a little fellow hanging out in the window of an art gallery- one of those many galleries serving up African art and such like.  Although I was focusing exclusively on the one, Other Half mentioned that the other two were adorable as well- which gave me pause to consider them, and indeed, they were.

We left by saying that it was impossible to get just the one- as anyone with a sensitivity, sensibility and heart would have to pick them all up.  Such is the nature of friends great, good and true- they stand together, come what may.  The others (though best left forgotten) are like yesterday's newspapers, flying in the wind every which way and decaying in the gutter.

The Grand Wheel

night fell but there in the near and far distance
shining brightly a chance to rise above it all
and indeed we did, for is now not forever?

not walking away but rather towards the grand wheel

as night fell as quickly as day rose

that of pink nougat seen from above

towards the arc de triomphe

After Before Sunset

An afternoon spent mostly looking at things (the usual, really, with scant time left for eating- which is quite the opposite of many people who spend their time looking for things to eat and drink) found us at a late hour of the afternoon inside Le Pure Cafe, which film folk may recognize as one of the places featured in Before Sunset (and, which, as fans, we went to snoop around in).  There was no citron presse ordered (that was Julie Delpy's drink in the film), for it was the dead of winter and a cool and refreshing drink was far from my mind.  And rather than just popping in for a chat and some coffee, it was a light cafe style lunch and a chat (or, really, preparation for the next things to look at).

By the way, we were seated at the same table that the characters in the film were, although the table was turned at a 90 degree angle- most likely because in the film they needed more space in which to maneuver the camera.  Upon leaving, I expressed the fact to my partner in crime that it was great that they seated us at that table and said partner in crime expressed the fact that "how many people would go there?  the waiter knew why we were there" given that the place is in a remote area (a bit off from the center, or at least "this aristocratic quarter" which Proust wrote of) and my French is quite laughable (though, perhaps understandable)

And there you have it.

The Heart and Liberty

While going through the Musee Carnavelet, that splendid museum chronicling the history of Paris, there is a staircase that one descends which holds a sparkling political gem.  Whoever placed it there did a really good sleight of hand trick, negating the pomp and no circumstance of the "heroes" of war and of French empire.  There, without even a little descriptive plaque, is a full on portrait of a fallen solider or youth, in front of a statue that reads "Liberte" while in the far background is the French flag (obscured by distance, gunfire smoke or memory)

The portrait is signed "J. LeCoeur" which I had thought to be an alias given its political content, as Lecoeur is translated as "The Heart" but in fact the heart of the matter is that it is the artist's proper name.

Looking Upwards, Material made Immaterial

Although I knew it from photographs, I had never been inside the Galeries Lafayette but for the one time (in a half baked attempt to see anything)- and, not even bothering to go in a little further (though it required little effort), I missed the spectacular sight that awaits one at its true heart and soul- not the various trinkets on sale, of which the gathered masses of tourists seemed to be snatching up with not a a care in the world, but I refer to the glass and steel dome which soars overhead.  Making quick work of moving through the handbags and other such material nonsense, and entrapped (though not long) by the perfume and make-up counters, one need but look up and see the glory, and indeed it is wonderful- moments of quiet and awesome joy that drowns out the noise, noise and more noise of the material world.

The Curious Allure of a Place

This afternoon, immersed in the relentless haze and speed of time that beckons and pushes one (quite unwillingly) headfirst into the next moment and then the next after that, I was lulled into a kind of absent minded yet willful serenity by music and then a phone call- such a familiar voice that cradled my stress addled brain back into a reinvigorated and purposeful kind of mindfulness.

It being a holiday today here in this country, Presidents' Day (or George Washington's Birthday, as it is supposed to commemorate, a fact which I did not know until listening to the radio this morning, assuming it was an all purpose day used to rationalize the "achievements" of presidents american in general), I thought that I would instead talk about an amusing adventure I had while walking back to my hotel after dinner (in Paris).

Roaming the ultra quiet streets (which I did not recognize, that area in particular not being so interesting to me) relatively carefree, I noticed an interesting building that seemed to be some governmental number- such was its aura, and turned the corner (after walking past a small barrier, ever so small, placed at the corner of the sidewalk).  Thinking nothing of it, I walked quite a few steps (maybe twenty five or so, just guessing), when a voice called out to me.  Instinct made me grab for my wallet, in case I either dropped it, or, some lowlife was out to get me.  Instead, I was told by a uniformed guard (not of the normal variety, but with full blown military attire) that it was prohibited to walk on that street, and I duly complied (not wishing deportation or imprisonment), and after doing so, backtracked and took some photographs of the street and the building.

When I got back to the hotel, I asked the concierge what the building was (showing him the photographs on my mobile), and was told it was the Palais de l'Elysee (Elysee Palace), which is the official residence of the french president.

Tell you one thing, though- despite seeing the White House a number of times, it was no big deal, but the mystery and aura of this area was something else altogether.

Two Glimpses into Society Past

Days having past since the last post, for reasons of travel and of a slight laziness (at least in the last two days since I have been back to this place), I thought that I would start off again ranting about the nature of Society (that of a certain type of people, a certain class, but not necessarily exhibiting Class), and what better than with two portraits that reveal quite rigorously and viciously but yet with such subtlety the distinctions of such a tribe?

Albert Guillaume, Les Retardataires.

Henri Gervex, Une Soiree au Pre-Catelan (1909)

These were on display at the Musee Carnavelet in Paris, situated in the hallway which led up to Marcel Proust's (reconstructed) bedroom, and it was fitting (though sad) to see the movement of time (as the museum chronicles the history of Paris), but then again, is not time (or Time in the absolute sense) always moving by and past us, swept up though we sometimes are (or feel) in its currents and sometimes drowning in the undercurrent?

Alas, is that not time?  Time, time, time.

Mouse Dropping, or, The State is Not You

A rather strange sticker spotted about town featuring a pop culture icon used as some kind of symbol for resistance, but with no clear rationale as to why and what- which is very much like the one word catchphrases and soundbites used prominently by political candidates with nothing to offer (except of course words, but not good words as say from a writer with something actually to say)

Perhaps it is the original Mickey Mouse crying out, a stab in the dark, a Mickey that comes before the Disneyfication of said Mickey, when he was a mischievous and cunning fellow (and also much more likable and believable a character)-  and, if you know not of what I write, then by all means do check the recently reprinted 1930s Gottfredson cartoons for a taste of that old existence.

Oui

Not to Battle but to Glory

Travel, or escape (from my surroundings, but also in a futile attempt to escape from myself most of all), being what it is (and the many things that it isn't), one of the things that often pops into my head, and most especially with Other Half recently being desirous of material things, we have been shopping around for suitable pieces of luggage.  Alas, this is not as easy as it sounds, as the golden days of luggage making (and of travel, and of the world in general) seem to have quickly slipped away and continues to slip away.  The beloved luggage that informed my impressions, those bulky hard shelled cases that traveled around the world, have, like men wearing suits, quickly given way to the leisurely lightweight of the contemporary suitcase which seems (and is) flimsy and throwaway (again, like the culture itself).  So, with few possible options (the Globe Trotter brand being one of them, but today I realized upon lifting even the small carry on that, as the salesman told me, "does not have wheels" and that it is much too heavy, I was out of luck with that label, and I suspect the one or two others which I set my eye upon, even though I for the most part actually do find it fun to carry luggage (since I usually only have one or two small carry-ons, maximum, given a certain paranoia about checking anything in).  Well, to make a long story rather shortened, I found a hard shelled piece from Samsonite that when I opened it found to be made in Japan, thus validating its quality, and although the outer shell seems to have been on countless trips (possibly to war torn countries, given its abuse), it seems rather fun to me to have it.  Also, I realized a few hours later that it may recall the luggage of my old flatmate from that many years ago, a fact which I had utterly forgotten in my storage of trivia.

All that being said, I am off tomorrow to the Continent, and might I say, not a moment too soon.

a rather blurred picture, as if in between time and times

made in japan and yet with a french strap (it seems)

That this too is Top Hat

It would be really hard not to be caught up by the sheer elegance and glamor of Fred Astaire in general after viewing a movie, but after watching all of them, there remains something so alluring about the tuxedo that he wore in Top Hat (and enchanting about his singing).  Obviously, I am not the only person so infatuated, as the cutter from Kilgour sought to recreate the look from the film, using contemporary fabrics as an approximation of what he might have worn.  While it does indeed look similar, there is something missing- Fred Astaire himself.

So, even if someone did wear the actual suit that Mr. Astaire wore in the film, they could never replicate him in his manner, his spirit, his joy and his style- no, no, they can't take that away from him.

as envisioned by Del Smith of Kilgour

Lonely One

A few days of inaction sees me searching through a backlog of images to find something to write about, and a droll illustration by Steig from a 1940s book The Lonely Ones (which was shown to me, but did not pick up- instead leafing through it and taking a photo of my favorite drawing) is the source of that this morning.  The caption for this fellow is "people are no damn good", and this may be a summation of most of the thoughts that run through a stereotypical New Yorker's head all day long, perhaps for good reason, but the best part is that he is straitjacketed and confined (in a way, in a box).  Nonetheless, as with many of the other drawings in the book, they have a sort of knowing but far and away look about them.

...As I myself recently have neither been here nor there, and may count among those lonely (but not alone) as well.