LOVE AND SQUALOR

If this doesn't bring a smile to your face, well....  (I guess we already knew I'm not that funny...)

Napoleon, 1813

Today, Noé and I went to the Musee de l'Armée, or, the Invalides.  The exhibit featuring Napoleon I-III had re-opened, and as he had no school today, it seemed a good way to spend the afternoon.  It is always surprising to me how many details of family trees, battles, and ranks and measures a ten year old boy can have in his little brain.  Relatively uninterested in the survival powers of swords and guns and armor, my little charge guided me through the exhibit, dutifully explaining the dates and purposes and import of everything that we viewed.  I must say, it was the best tour I have ever taken.

I came across a painting there of a young commander.  I think I fell in love.  Something about the painting, from an unknown artist, really captivated me.  I don't know if it is because I saw in his face one of Vermeer's women, or if it was the slightest sneer of his lip, that, combined with the creativity in his eyes I saw some simulacra of a young King David, but it was very moving, hiding in its corner.  I think he died, early, following the figure depicted above...

TIGHTENING THE CIRCLE

Yes, folks, I have indeed joined forces with some of the "literati" here, and we are coming up with some ways to take our machinations public.  It's nothing new, really- or at least I do know it's been done before.  So all you critics of my pretention, just stop reading now, and check back next week for some easy-on-the stomach travel logging.

The purpose of this little group is tackle postmodernism (which those of you who know me are probably too familiar with my late-night whiskey-fueled monologues ranting and reeming its flaws) in a democratic way.  A little *ah-hem* maturity and the rigor bestowed upon me by my philosophy studies demand that I take it far beyond my tendency to preside over barroom discussions, and open the floor for the supporters as well as the denouncers.  One question I keep asking myself, especially as concerns literature, is, "How far is too far?"  While the Shock Wave that seems to be quite prominent in literature these days doesn't exactly offend me, (I am, after all, just as desensitized as the rest of my generation), it does make me curious about the ultimate purpose and effectiveness of all that this traumatism suggests.  I know many of my readers are much more qualified and competent at contributing to this, both formally and informally- so please be thinking on it.  As I feel that I am better qualified to act as mediator of sorts, I welcome commentary here, but also be aware that a publication will hopefully ensue in the fall, in which I will be looking for submissions.  After that, the goal is to host round-table symposium-esq events biannually, the first we are thinking will take place in London in December.  Basically, we want to engage writers, philosophers, scholars, etc. in a conceptual version of TED.  

While this is a very loose sketch of what's taking place here in Paris, be sure a concrete structure is on the horizon, so be ready for intervals from pictures of sailboats and pretty buildings...

DIEPPE

Dieppe is a tiny little town on the Normandy coast.  There is really not much to report, but that was kinda the point of going there.  Hiatus from Paris, and some sea air.  I did eat a delicious moule, and visited a really weird bar.  But mostly, it was just quiet...

ART

Although I am inhabiting a city with some of the greatest collections of artwork in the world, I have not seen even a tenth of it.  This is partly due, yes, to the overwhelming amount of it here (the sheer proportions of which one would have to devote an entire lifetime to absorbing), but also due to my own laziness.  Today for example, would be a great day to spend in a museum as it is quite grey and rainy, but instead I am doing laundry and blogging.  This morning I did read Stefan Zweig's novella "Chess," which was interesting and cataclysmic despite only being 75 pages.  Anyway, my lack of museum-perusing began at first by not wishing to try to consume Paris' sights, but allowing them to seep into me, in the efforts of being of the spirit of a mug of tea rather than a culture-vulture.  Now that I have been here about three months, and my french is beginning to become passable, I think it may be time to concentrate on the artworld a bit more.  I did go and see an exhibition of William Blake, and was pretty amazed.  Most of the pieces were actually quite small in dimensions, but nonetheless his child-like representations of rather dark material were quite striking.  But my favorite part of the exhibit was one of Francis Bacon's paintings of Blake's self-made "Deathmask."  He did a few versions of this, and I post here the one I saw, although the quality of the color does the painting no justice.  It was hanging on a wall at the end of the exhibit proper, next to a flat-screen which had about 45 seconds of Jarmusch's "Dead Man" in which Nobody encounters William Blake and asks, "How can it be?"  Over and over on repeat, this little clip sort-of got Bacon's painting stuck in my head, so I share it here.

On Saturday, a fellow Memphian came to Paris, as he had bored of London and the business that had taken him there.  I took him to Le marche aux puces de Saint-Ouen, where we had a nice lunch with my boss and son.  We then went to Montparnasse looking for Oscar Wilde's favorite bar, which my friend had visited the last time he was in Paris 15 years ago.  We were unsuccessful, but enjoyed some American beverages nonetheless.  After that, we had a break for naps and rejoined another in the evening.  We took a trip up the Eiffel Tower at night, which was pretty nice with all the lights and the full moon.  I realized in this day with a comrade a few things about my internal self, most notably that, well, I've changed a lot.  Imperceptible to the self which has demanded a lot in terms of "improvement" (see the post CHRONIC OBSERVER), ideas, no, the structure of thought has made a movement.  Most likely, this is entirely lateral, but it was interesting enough to witness it, and to note that it takes a comparative devise (such as a person from "home") to be able to perceive the movement.  I'm not depressed enough this morning to go into the details here on the blog, but believe that I was stricken and that it IS recounted in vol. III of the cumbersome journal.  Here are a few photos from the excursion.

MAY DAY

The first of May is a holiday in France.  Here's the history: "On May 1st, 1561, King Charles IX of France received a lily of the valley as a lucky charm. He decided to offer a lily of the valley each year to the ladies of the court. At the beginning of the 20th century, it became custom on the 1st of May, to give a sprig of lily of the valley, a symbol of springtime. The government permits individuals and workers' organisations to sell them free of taxation. It is also traditional for the lady receiving the spray of lily of valley to give a kiss in return. Now, people may present loved ones with bunches of lily of the valley or dog rose flowers."  (Wikipedia)  It is quite a charming holiday, I think.  Which may have to do with the fact that the French take lots of holidays, and that is always charming, but, still.  So I received two sets of Lillies- Bruno brought them for all of the girls in his household, and another came from a friend.  See above.

In other news, I am eagerly anticipating Jim Jarmusch's new film, "The Limits of Control."  Jarmusch is known for films of the journeyman, and though they are always a bit abstract, I am interested in comparing his latest endeavor with my own experiences.  See NYT review here: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/26/movies/26lim.html?_r=1&scp=3&sq=jarmusch&st=cse.  

Another theme being tested and tried (and researched in the sociological method (sic)) is, "What remains after Love?"  I am working on putting this into a narrative, and so comments are welcome.  Although it would be easy to focus here on all that is dour in the world, I really would like the piece to have a tone of reconciliation, in the hopes that by the end of the work maybe a little bit of lost innocence can be regained.  Maybe my interest here is a bit of an atonement for those casualties of myself, but beyond that I think it is a subject everyone deals with at one time or another, and life in France seems to be sharpening certain foci.  Many different accounts of this have been given over the course of time, but I find it especially interesting amidst this postmodern isolation.  So please, if you have thoughts, post them!

CHRONIC OBSERVER

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world.

HAMLET

An intermission from the daily doings/travel log: a jaunt into the dark, recesses, internal musings.  

It can be a time to square oneself with the world, with oneself, even-- taking leave of the familiar and going off into the unknown.  One might even see it as an opportunity to "begin again," cast off some of the things in oneself that are a little more nebulous, a little destructive, slightly broken.  One has no past, the "other" has no experience of the self, it is a clean slate, or as close to that ideal as one is likely to get in life.   But the trouble is, having mapped out all the realms of the earth and even some of the heavens, that energy of exploration, in our time, has no place new to turn; thus, it comports itself, returns to the old lands, and engages in a re-discovery of the various mothers of civilization.

Returning there, the observer finds again, and with more angst and stronger, these traits within himself which he wished to slough off.  For one set of scales is exchanged a shinier lot; molting takes time and concentration, but the new coverings stay soft a pathetically small amount of hours or days.  He discovers these "flaws" to be less trends than staples; in fact, perhaps, he finds that they are commodities, and out of the new world, into the old, they are the various things which will enable his survival.  Now there is a circle present, and his hunger for exploration is dulled by the realization that he is, in fact, a rather pitiful, despise-able excuse for a man, and that the time or context really is of no importance.  This idea is even more painful because he is sure that he knew this before embarking.  So, the familiar gains momentum because he is drawn to nostalgia, and he begins to see the new world with old eyes: it is still ugly, yes; it still lacks a largeness he yearns for, he is still too big for its shoes.  It begins to occur to him that there is no place he is home, but how to find the energy to repair that?  It appears as if that endeavor, as the entire zig-zag of his life, will prove to be yet another cyclical structure, and one that he can predict without actually having to go out and do it.  The people (mostly strangers) around him only reinforce these ideas: he can say much, and with a high percentage of accuracy, about their particular woes and triumphs, he wonders at how any of them actually live without his peculiar torpor, how they get through the day to day without small amounts of cyanide or large quantities of malt beverages.  He disdains them, and yet-- they seem to have some secret he is missing.  He makes various well-intentioned acts such as swearing off women, renting a house in the country for a month, quitting his good salaried job, and ignoring the bank credit in favor of discovering this secret of the living.  

Still, he finds himself primarily to be "a creature driven and derided by vanity" and slowly abandons value-based decisions for a life in accord with his cold essence-- something that only increases his guilt for not living up to the character he always fancied himself to become.  

Classic existential crisis, yes, but then we humans have come to believe so solidly in our own individuality that it seems, each time, again and again and again, to be new, original, and so it has power.  No other is dealing with such weight, although at any given moment there are a plethora of examples of it to be found throughout the art around us.  It still doesn't fail to move us to grand depths of depression and hedonism.  So, why?  What is so delicious and so obscure, this remote idea of a reconciliation?  

THE RITES OF SPRING

Iris as Marie Antoinette...
Lucie as Her Ladyship
Two Maries
Bruno sporting curls
Sir Noe

And, the Spring:
At a cafe

Ecole Active Bilingual, Noe's school.
Parc Monceau
Le Grand Palais, as seen from our terrace.

Spring in Paris is really beautiful.  Well, spring is just a beautiful season, but in Paris, there does seem to be something magical about it.  Perhaps it is just that in a big city, through the winter, one tends to forget about Nature, being confined to all the stone and steel.  Perhaps it is just the grace of new life bursting about everywhere that tends to inspire new energies each day.  Or perhaps Paris' spring really is something out of the ordinary, with its cafe terraces and Seine bridges.  Any way you go about it, it's something I recommend...

So here are a few photos commemorating the spring in Paris, along with some random ones of a Friday night at home.  It seems that wig-wearing is a Rite of Spring!

And, congratulations to my brother and Kate on the birth of Madeline Jane.  She is very beautiful, and yet another gift of this glorious season.  I miss you guys and can't wait to meet her!