On a whim tonight, some friends and I went to see Woody Allen's latests film, Midnight in Paris. We're in Paris, the film is in Paris. We're studying expatriate writers from the 20s, the film characterizes expatriate writers from the 20s. We are surrounded by beautiful surrealist, impressionist, and cubist artwork, the film portrays these artists. Really, this film could not have been released at a better time.
It was actually quite a metaphysical experience. At one point, there was a screen shot of the very theatre we were sitting in. The Parisians didn't seem as moved by this experience as we were--I assume they are accustomed to seeing their hometown on the silver screen regularly--but to us it was as if all the pieces of the puzzle were finally falling together.
Even though the film was about appreciating your life and the time you live in (because living in the past is a form of escapism that produces nothing) it still romanticized the city. Hemingway would say that it was not true and brave. But then again, Hemingway wasn't as straightforward as he claimed to be. Personally, I think it's fine to romanticize Paris, because the city is glorious. It is passionate, and you can feel it pulsing through you as you walk its streets. It's not the way you feel New York City. There, you see it, you hear it; your senses are overloaded and you are in the center of the collision of American culture. In Paris you smell it, you touch it, it becomes the study beat of your heart, the rise and fall of your breath, the light clip-clop of your heel on the cobblestones.
Maybe I am romanticizing it because that is what I have been trained to do by films and songs and stories. But I doubt that I could do so this strongly if there weren't some truth in it.
If we want the truth--rather, if you want the truth, because I know I want the truth, I just don't know if I can reach it-- I romanticize every foreign place I travel to. As an unknown land, it is full of possibilities. There is no reality to stop me. I can meet a handsome, kind, and funny stranger that will lead me through the city and teach me its secrets. I can become lost in the crevices of the map for hours, seeing things that only surrealists could surmise, before inexplicably encountering my residence. I could become entranced by a painting and stare at it for hours. I could become an artist's muse, live in a cafe, write a novel, learn to bake a croissant. To romanticize here is no different, except that I am not alone in doing so.
I, like Gil in the movie, want to share a kiss along the River Seine, or find someone to walk along with me at night in the rain. I want someone to stare at old paintings imagining quirky stories for the figures with me. I want someone to lie in the garden Tuilleries and share a bottle of wine with, as we watch the others pass by, lost in love or games or their thoughts.
Perhaps, what really makes Paris so romantic is that because so many people have this impression of the city they let their guards down, and then the magical, which they always deemed impossible, can slip out of the box we have labelled "For Dreams Only," and became the truth we desire.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
The Louvre
It really is enormous, you know. I mean, you see it from the outside and realize how much space the building physically takes up, but from the exterior it's impossible to fathom how many paintings, sculptures, and artifacts can really be housed in that museum.
This is my third trip to Paris, and probably my fourth or fifth trip to the Louvre, and the place never becomes repetitive or boring. I could stare at the same painting for hours, even days on end, and not become tired of it. Every time I look at one of those masterpieces, especially the gargantuan ones that tower over my head and force me to stumble back to the opposite wall to view them clearly (and even then, in some cases, its impossible) I see something new.
There's a game I like to play when I'm in museums. I'll take a painting, preferably one of the complex ones filled with figures or faces, and make up stories between between the characters. My favourite today was the Death of Sardanapalus. If you look in the background there is a woman being restrained by a soldier, about to be killed. A closer look shows that she is looking down towards the right and if you follow her gaze you find a soldier, agony wrenched across his face. But he is not being tortured or prepared for death. No, he should be doing the killing. Yet, he is staring up at her with a face so horrified that there can be no other emotion but love driving him in this moment. He can do nothing. She will die at the hands of his comrades, and he will watch her blood flow. If this were Romeo and Juliet he would surely kill himself as well, so they could be reunited in the afterlife. But he is not Romeo and he will not die. He will go on living because that is the only thing one can do. And he will suffer and he will hurt in ways unknown to anyone but himself; but he will love again, because that is what living is. To live is to love. Otherwise, what is the point?
I've always wanted to play this game with someone else. I think it would be a wonderful way to gain insight into the way someone else thinks. And yes, I do have someone in mind with whom I would like to play it with. Nevertheless, I must admit that going to the Louvre alone was a refreshing experience. I was on of the few people I saw there alone. It was nice to go at my own pace, however; to stare at a painting as long as I liked and to avoid the galleries I was not fond of (ahem, Broze and Etruscan Age.) I took Art History the year after my second trip to Paris, so there were many paintings I saw in an entirely new light this time around (both figuratively and literally. They moved some of the artwork to new locations in my absence.) I'm thinking of the French paintings in particular. Delacroix's work, as well as David's.
I'm sure other's have mentioned this but the Mona Lisa really isn't much of a sight to see, especially the second or third time around. It's a tiny little thing, and to really appreciate da Vinci's use of sfumato you have to be up close and personal, which considering the large, untamed crowds that flock the segment of wall reserved specifically for this relic, is a challenging task indeed. They do place her in an out-of-the-way location however, perhaps in the hopes that the vistor will walk by carelessly and miss her.
I noticed that that was how many walked through the museum. Oblivious to the masterpieces that surrounded them. Those who had the headsets would stop and listen to the stories about the paintings. But the rest would clip through the Grand Gallerie at a disrespectful pace. I understand that certain types or eras of paintings may not be one's favourite, but the masses of people engaging in this act led me to believe that this was more a result of a general disease than a result of personal preference. Really now. These artists spent years on these paintings. The least we can do is honor them with a few minutes of our time.
This is my third trip to Paris, and probably my fourth or fifth trip to the Louvre, and the place never becomes repetitive or boring. I could stare at the same painting for hours, even days on end, and not become tired of it. Every time I look at one of those masterpieces, especially the gargantuan ones that tower over my head and force me to stumble back to the opposite wall to view them clearly (and even then, in some cases, its impossible) I see something new.
There's a game I like to play when I'm in museums. I'll take a painting, preferably one of the complex ones filled with figures or faces, and make up stories between between the characters. My favourite today was the Death of Sardanapalus. If you look in the background there is a woman being restrained by a soldier, about to be killed. A closer look shows that she is looking down towards the right and if you follow her gaze you find a soldier, agony wrenched across his face. But he is not being tortured or prepared for death. No, he should be doing the killing. Yet, he is staring up at her with a face so horrified that there can be no other emotion but love driving him in this moment. He can do nothing. She will die at the hands of his comrades, and he will watch her blood flow. If this were Romeo and Juliet he would surely kill himself as well, so they could be reunited in the afterlife. But he is not Romeo and he will not die. He will go on living because that is the only thing one can do. And he will suffer and he will hurt in ways unknown to anyone but himself; but he will love again, because that is what living is. To live is to love. Otherwise, what is the point?
I've always wanted to play this game with someone else. I think it would be a wonderful way to gain insight into the way someone else thinks. And yes, I do have someone in mind with whom I would like to play it with. Nevertheless, I must admit that going to the Louvre alone was a refreshing experience. I was on of the few people I saw there alone. It was nice to go at my own pace, however; to stare at a painting as long as I liked and to avoid the galleries I was not fond of (ahem, Broze and Etruscan Age.) I took Art History the year after my second trip to Paris, so there were many paintings I saw in an entirely new light this time around (both figuratively and literally. They moved some of the artwork to new locations in my absence.) I'm thinking of the French paintings in particular. Delacroix's work, as well as David's.
I'm sure other's have mentioned this but the Mona Lisa really isn't much of a sight to see, especially the second or third time around. It's a tiny little thing, and to really appreciate da Vinci's use of sfumato you have to be up close and personal, which considering the large, untamed crowds that flock the segment of wall reserved specifically for this relic, is a challenging task indeed. They do place her in an out-of-the-way location however, perhaps in the hopes that the vistor will walk by carelessly and miss her.
I noticed that that was how many walked through the museum. Oblivious to the masterpieces that surrounded them. Those who had the headsets would stop and listen to the stories about the paintings. But the rest would clip through the Grand Gallerie at a disrespectful pace. I understand that certain types or eras of paintings may not be one's favourite, but the masses of people engaging in this act led me to believe that this was more a result of a general disease than a result of personal preference. Really now. These artists spent years on these paintings. The least we can do is honor them with a few minutes of our time.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Day One: Jet Lag and Encounters with the French
After eight hours on the plane, an eternity on the subway (in which I provided a pick-pocket with my incredibly valuable map of the Parisian underground), and a good two minutes of pressing the intercom button outside of my dorm-- I swear it was hissing at me every time I tried to say Bonjour-- I am finally in Paris.
The city really is magically romantic. Or perhaps romantically magical. It's all about the architecture and the layout of the city. It simple to look at those white balconies and 45 degree angles and forget that you are in the twenty first century. It is easy to allow the desire to pull out a book and while away the day at a cafe in true expat fashion a la the nineteen twenties to overcome you. But then I remember that there are museums and gardens and palaces I should be visiting. That there is more than beauty in Paris, there is history and culture and cuisine, all that must be savored and relished.
Its overwhelming really. And it explains why yesterday, I passed out at around 4 pm, only to wake up today at 8:30. I should have gone out for breakfast, explored the cafes. But, I didn't. Why? I'll admit it, because I was scared. I've been abroad before, and I know what it feels like to be a stranger in another country. But there is something about France that makes it even more intimidating. It is not just that I don't know the language. Rather, is that instead of feeling like a guest here, I feel more like an impostor, someone who has infiltrated their midst and is trying to go along without causing any ripples in their fluid French lives. Except that is impossible and they know I'm here. I have the premonition that every time I attempt to speak French, ask for help, or God forbid, speak English, I am highlighting a target on my back. I may just have a negative vision of the French, full of preconceived notions and stereotypes. But...every stereotype is derived from a grain of truth is it not? Still, as I review my encounters with the French, I realize that perhaps I have no need to be so fearful.
Encounter #1
Enter Me. Alone in a French metro station, lugging a 50+ pound luggage behind me. Freshly kicked off a train two stations too early, I appear confused, concerned and very, very American. As a stand there deciphering an incomplete map of the metro system, a French man, about 45 years old, standing nearby approaches me.
Man: Bonjour.
Me: Bonjour
Man: Jabbers away in French, gesticulating to the map.
Me: I'm sorry I don't speak French.
Man: Where do you want to go?
I point on map.
Man: Mumbles to himself in French. Go downstairs. Take B, two stops.
Me: Merci. In my head: I JUST GOT KICKED OFF THE B TRAIN. THIS COUNTRY MAKES NO SENSE. I go downstairs.
Encounter #2
I continue to be confused. A metro director appears across the platform. I ask him for help. Review Encounter #1. I get on the train he has pointed me towards. Apparently today the D line is the B line. Sacrebleu.
Encounter #3
Enter Me. Still lugging a suitcase. Now up a giant flight of stairs. Suddenly a young woman appears, about twenty years old.
Woman: Speaks quickly, but kindly, in French
Me: Mumbles something in English, strained with the weight of the luggage.
Woman: Gestures towards me suitcase. Grabs one of the handles. Helps me carry it up the stairs.
Me: Merci, merci, merci, gracias, merci!
Encounter #4
Woman at the cell phone store. She is one the phone with customer service and helping two costumers at once. On of which is my friend and I, neither of whom speaks English. Nevertheless, she provides us with the two phones we are looking for, puts the phone into English for us, teaches us how to check how many minutes we have left, teaches us where we can recharge our minutes, all while on the phone, never without a smile, and using perhaps only two words of English. Oh, and she helped the other customer as well.
Encounter #5
Walking down the street, speaking English with a friend. A wild French girl suddenly appears! She would like to know where we are from because she is trying to learn the difference between English accents. We oblige. We engage in conversation for a few minutes. She seems put off when we introduce ourselves. I guess the French don't introduce themselves to foreigners, or perhaps strangers in general. She helps us find the street we are looking for however. She comments that the French have a reputation for being unhelpful and she wants to change that. Then she rollerblades off to the weekly French rollerblade thing that apparently takes over the streets.
Encounter #6
Unhelpful subway ticket selling lady.
So I suppose my conclusion is that while the French have no intention of initially being charming, they are willing to be helpful. They are not warm people, at least at first, by any means, but if you make the effort to communicate with them, they will to some degree reciprocate. Perhaps tomorrow I will while away my day at a cafe.
The city really is magically romantic. Or perhaps romantically magical. It's all about the architecture and the layout of the city. It simple to look at those white balconies and 45 degree angles and forget that you are in the twenty first century. It is easy to allow the desire to pull out a book and while away the day at a cafe in true expat fashion a la the nineteen twenties to overcome you. But then I remember that there are museums and gardens and palaces I should be visiting. That there is more than beauty in Paris, there is history and culture and cuisine, all that must be savored and relished.
Its overwhelming really. And it explains why yesterday, I passed out at around 4 pm, only to wake up today at 8:30. I should have gone out for breakfast, explored the cafes. But, I didn't. Why? I'll admit it, because I was scared. I've been abroad before, and I know what it feels like to be a stranger in another country. But there is something about France that makes it even more intimidating. It is not just that I don't know the language. Rather, is that instead of feeling like a guest here, I feel more like an impostor, someone who has infiltrated their midst and is trying to go along without causing any ripples in their fluid French lives. Except that is impossible and they know I'm here. I have the premonition that every time I attempt to speak French, ask for help, or God forbid, speak English, I am highlighting a target on my back. I may just have a negative vision of the French, full of preconceived notions and stereotypes. But...every stereotype is derived from a grain of truth is it not? Still, as I review my encounters with the French, I realize that perhaps I have no need to be so fearful.
Encounter #1
Enter Me. Alone in a French metro station, lugging a 50+ pound luggage behind me. Freshly kicked off a train two stations too early, I appear confused, concerned and very, very American. As a stand there deciphering an incomplete map of the metro system, a French man, about 45 years old, standing nearby approaches me.
Man: Bonjour.
Me: Bonjour
Man: Jabbers away in French, gesticulating to the map.
Me: I'm sorry I don't speak French.
Man: Where do you want to go?
I point on map.
Man: Mumbles to himself in French. Go downstairs. Take B, two stops.
Me: Merci. In my head: I JUST GOT KICKED OFF THE B TRAIN. THIS COUNTRY MAKES NO SENSE. I go downstairs.
Encounter #2
I continue to be confused. A metro director appears across the platform. I ask him for help. Review Encounter #1. I get on the train he has pointed me towards. Apparently today the D line is the B line. Sacrebleu.
Encounter #3
Enter Me. Still lugging a suitcase. Now up a giant flight of stairs. Suddenly a young woman appears, about twenty years old.
Woman: Speaks quickly, but kindly, in French
Me: Mumbles something in English, strained with the weight of the luggage.
Woman: Gestures towards me suitcase. Grabs one of the handles. Helps me carry it up the stairs.
Me: Merci, merci, merci, gracias, merci!
Encounter #4
Woman at the cell phone store. She is one the phone with customer service and helping two costumers at once. On of which is my friend and I, neither of whom speaks English. Nevertheless, she provides us with the two phones we are looking for, puts the phone into English for us, teaches us how to check how many minutes we have left, teaches us where we can recharge our minutes, all while on the phone, never without a smile, and using perhaps only two words of English. Oh, and she helped the other customer as well.
Encounter #5
Walking down the street, speaking English with a friend. A wild French girl suddenly appears! She would like to know where we are from because she is trying to learn the difference between English accents. We oblige. We engage in conversation for a few minutes. She seems put off when we introduce ourselves. I guess the French don't introduce themselves to foreigners, or perhaps strangers in general. She helps us find the street we are looking for however. She comments that the French have a reputation for being unhelpful and she wants to change that. Then she rollerblades off to the weekly French rollerblade thing that apparently takes over the streets.
Encounter #6
Unhelpful subway ticket selling lady.
So I suppose my conclusion is that while the French have no intention of initially being charming, they are willing to be helpful. They are not warm people, at least at first, by any means, but if you make the effort to communicate with them, they will to some degree reciprocate. Perhaps tomorrow I will while away my day at a cafe.
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