Gallery opening 5.24 / The new love song of J

“In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.”

They didn’t talk of Michelangelo, but of mythology, natural forms, biomorphism. She stood and watched as the people passed through the gallery.  To her the sculptures resembled piles of boobs.  An old man stroked the top of each as he walked past.

Every so often someone would come.

Are you the gallerist?

She would smile nervously and say no but offer help.

They would go, in search of the real thing.

Her cheeks flushed. She wandered out back through the courtyard no one was to see and into the storage room to dab her hairline, her lip. She wondered if there would be time. Would there be time? Time to prepare her face to meet the faces she would meet? And if indeed there was time would she dare? 

Whether or not she decided there was time or not and whether or not she decided to dare or not she found herself once more pinned and wriggling on the gallery wall, half a smile and half a frown on her face watching the arms, braceleted and white and bare as they stroked nay caressed each pile of boobs.

This one is reserved.

For whom?

For him.

Ah. 

The knowing look did little to hide the longing that grew in her eyes.

And this one? What of this one?

I can tell you on Saturday. Saturday I’ll know.

Oh. Oh. Oh. So how should I presume?

The woman was right. How to presume? How to presume in a room dedicated to presumption?

Shall she ask what she should and should not do?

As the night wore on it seemed she knew them all.

That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.

To know one was to know them all.

But she did not know if it was worth it, after all.

And she did not know what he meant in the first place. Not a bit, not at all.

It was impossible.

But still, she understood.

There would be no crisis. There would never be a crisis.

And the universe would not be reduced. Could not be reduced. Not into a ball.

Nor a pile of boobs.

Beouufff, says Pierre...

I am not a big emoticon fan...I am however a big procrastination fan.  So I decided to make a French man emoticon:

?:-})


Since everyone's a critic and I got some varied reviews, I played with the construction of the beret and made this little buddy:

`(:-})



Now it's back to the Middle Ages to make a 20 minute presentation in French...

Storm the Bastille!

Just under 223 years ago, an exasperated people stormed a medieval fortress, tearing down the symbol of their oppression and catapulting their world away from the only past they had ever known. Today, where that fortress once imposed, an exasperated people stood, unarmed, and stormed once more.  No buildings (that I know of) came down, no Marquis was beheaded (at least I hope not), but the smiling mob swelled and filled once more the birth place of the revolution, celebrating the election of François Hollande.

"La Change, C'est Maintenant"

Will François Hollande bring about change, now?  Probably not.  Will the French masses be disappointed after a year?  Most likely.  Do many of them already know this to be true?  Absolutely.  But for tonight, that is not what matters.  Tonight is the time for the French to do what they do best: faire la fête.  Tomorrow morning they will wake up, take the same métro they have been taking their entire life, go to the same job from 9 to 5, and sleep the same sleep.  Tomorrow they can realize that one man alone cannot save the world, revitalize France.  But tonight, they can hope.

Pigeons, Elections and Jazz Bands

I find it amusing to watch pigeons as they congregate on statues.  Here you have Pope Someone the 7th, there Napoleon III, a pigeon on the pope's head, another on Napoleon's hand.  A monument to the importance of the person, austere and grand in its scale and countenance, covered in poop.

"pigeons on a pope," a watercolor by Mari

It is only about three weeks since I myself, having just finished a steaming cup of Angelina's hot chocolate, emerging from the historic gathering place of aristocrats (this I read in the restaurant's high brow description), feeling regal as ever, was pooped on by a pigeon.  And this was no average pigeon - perhaps he or she too had just finished a pitcher of Angelina's hot chocolate (it is after all supposed to be the best in Paris) - no, this was a pigeon with a stomach ache, laying not one, not two, but several plops on my shoulder.

Whether my pigeon friend had very good taste in hot chocolate, or whether it was just having a bad day, in either case, I sympathise with statues.  In fact, I think that in an attempt to honor someone by making a statue of them, one actually ensures their continuous indignity.  Now Louis XIV, in his numerous statue forms will be pooped on for centuries.  How's that for glorifying the great historical men and women (let's be real, most statues in this country are of men).  Oh, pardon me, Louis XIV definitely erected all of his statues in his own honor.  Well Mr. Sun King, if you are looking for someone to blame for the poop on your shoulder, look in the mirror.

Speaking of political men, France, as you likely know, is currently tensely suspended between the two rounds of their presidential election.  Amidst all of the opinions regarding the impending election, I have little to add but for this photo:

Watch Hollande's campaign video here.

Apparently François Hollande, the candidate up against Nicolas Sarkozy, researched the tactics that Barack Obama used in his 2008 campaign in order to try to earn young French votes in this election.  The result?  A video of him travelling through the suburbs of Paris set to "Ni**as in Paris," by Jay-Z and Kanye West.  It's pretty fascinating, actually.  When I told my boss, he was indignant, "Yes, that is very interesting, but France and America are very different, you know?  The young people here, they are very fed up.  Many of them voted for Le Pen."  And indeed, on a sunny walk through the marais, I stumbled upon a graffiti of Hollande in Shepard Fairey style captioned, "NO HOPE."

That wasn't the only sign of America I encountered on my walk that day.  After three weeks of rain in this lovely city (no sarcasm), I decided to profit from the sun after work.  I strolled by park lawns covered with people, past the lines for falafel and stopped when I heard the squawks of a clarinet playing some 1920s tune.  Hidden by a circle of spectators was a small band of old Americans playing jazz and swing.  An old woman danced along to their music, swaying and spinning in every direction and little kids ran up to throw them coins.  I danced home on the metro with a smile on my face.

And there you were, thinking pigeons, elections and jazz bands had nothing in common...

Call me nostalgic...but they were darn cute!

These Americans have been getting their groove on for years it seems.

It's a sign: Mari's guide to the street signs of Paris

There are many very helpful signs all over Paris.  In the case that you might be lost in the streets, here is a handy guide to some of the most essential signs you will come across:

No navel gazing here.  Especially not if you are a green man with no neck.

No music is permitted on the métro.  But dancing is encouraged.

Danger of death: you will be struck by a bolt of red lightning, and then your red body will fall in front of a train.

Get low.

Men in black wearing murses please beware of men in red with long arms. 

Should you desire, anonymous handholding is permitted through this designated hole in the wall.
Should you not desire, feel free to exit through the side door.

Open this emergency door handle by running directly at it, head on. 

 If large slugs should attack, take off your clothes and run to the left.

 Identical twins must stand exactly the same way to avoid danger.

 Thirty men with shovels on a single lane road ahead.

 You might be struck by a bolt of dry lightning here.

Bikes must go underground.   All other traffic must go over this building.

This crosswalk is only for men with no feet wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. 

Bald men with short right legs and small, bald girls with short left legs are not allowed here.

If you love your neighborhood, stick a shovel in your unsuspecting dog's behind.

DANGER TO THE LEFT!

Something has happened!

Windows are open, tables fill the sidewalks. People drink beer on the grass and are scolded back onto the paths by park officials. With the first rays of sun, Paris has transformed before my very eyes.

I went for a jog in Parc Monceau to clear my mind and enjoy the sun...but the park was like nothing I'd ever seen before! It was "Dejeuner sur l'herbe" by Manet times 1,000! Hundreds of people were lounging on the grass. Then, it appeared that the entire population of Paris had shrunk, as I could only see troves of small children running in every direction. Strollers blocked every path, moms and babies walking 10 deep such that I had to stop running and hop the fence to get around them.

Every restaurant that I pass seems to have expanded. Merry people drinking beer, coffee or wine fill tables that extend far into the sidewalk. Places I once thought had walls have opened them, and dining customers pour out of these openings. Rollerbladers fill the streets, kids rule the parks, teenagers lounge in every sunny spot...something has happened in Paris!

More Métro Music

These men are jamming.  Métro station: Concorde.  I have seen them a few times and I always want to join in!

If you are in the mood for more...

The magic of Paris

I am going to take a little break from my cynical voice and reflect on the magical moments of Paris that I have experienced...
The moment when I came across a tiny street lined with rustic restaurants I could swear Hemingway must have haunted.  Or when a brass band started playing and everyone who passed danced.  When a round-faced little boy spinning to the music of said brass band became so dizzy he couldn't walk straight and stumbled right into me.  Or walking across the tuileries in the yellow setting sun and watching the old men play pétanque and the kids push boats in the fountain.
It is each of these experiences that catch me suddenly and linger on...a sort of secret between Paris and myself.  A little piece of Paris just for me.  And I think it is these moments in a place that start to make the difference between visiting a place and truly living in it.

An afternoon stroll in the Tuilerie gardens

Brasse ta Roquette

Mouff'tot? or Mouff'tard?  Well...in any case, this is the quaintest street I've stumbled upon yet...

...and apparently Hemingway did come here!

Street art in Montmartre

Quiet street and a cat

Mari's (fancy) busking adventures!

Today, I played my ukulele in the Tuileries and made a video out of it...skip to 1:33 if you're in a need of a laugh...

Watch it here small, or bigger on youtube:

Phantogram at La Flèche d'Or, 2/24/2012

Almost two months into Paris and I finally got my act together, made good on my pretentious music talk, and shlepped myself to a concert.  I use the word shlep not because it was a bad concert, not in the least.  Mostly because it was in the 20th arrondissement, which is about as far as humanly possible from where I live.  Looks like I'll be shlepping over there more often though - it has a lot of neat concert venues.

I arrived at La Flèche d'Or and passed by the smoking patio and into the intimate concert hall and bar.  Andromakers opened first to a small crowd.  A dynamic, female, french duo, who I later stood next to while watching Phantogram, the two girls of Andromakers wailed over their loud drum beat and electronic melodies.  It was a pretty fun sound, but as for the lead singer all I want to say is, "You're not Bjork."

Andromakers

The next band, Hooray for Earth, hailed from New York.  Also a pretty fun band, I liked their playful use of sounds and percussion.  Their noisy instrumentation drowned out the lead singer, but what they lacked in sound balance (intentional or not) they made up for in energy.

Hooray for Earth

The crowd swelled for the arrival of Phantogram.  From Sarah's hair to Phantogram's music, the performance was perfect.  They blasted the highlights of both their album, Eyelid Movies, and their newest EP, Nightlife, with full force and energy.  There was the familiar beat to "You are the Ocean" in which Sarah's vocals were more pronounced in duet with Josh's, highlighting the lines "In the fall I get lonely. In the winter I'm still lonely. Come the mask of springtime. In the summer I go crazy."

Phantogram's Sarah Barthel 

Then the parisians, americans, brits and myself swayed and bounced to Mouthful of Diamonds, 16 Years, As Far as I Can See, Turning into Stone, Running from the Cops, Futuristic Casket and more.  What I liked best about their performance was how tight and sassy it was.  Every sound was delievered, and more on top of that, making for a truly live experience.

Phantogram's Josh Carter

Phantogram 

(Pardon the picture quality...it's a combination of the head-bopper 

I was standing next to and that fact this this was taken on a point and shoot)

Lastly, I just want to say that Sarah Barthel is a bad ass...there's no way around it...

On to the next show!  St. Vincent at Alhambra, 2/26/2012

A Girl's [Highly Successful] Guide to French Men

I have this friend (she shall remain unnamed, as she is shy - it's not me, I promise), let's call her Venus.  In two months in France, Venus has danced with over 50 men, received at least one marriage proposal and travelled to Spain and back with a French man.  In so many words, Venus has major Parisian game.  One day, she even wrote her number on a piece of paper and passed it to someone as she left the metro (instead of running off at the last minute to avoid pursuit, as is my method).  Here is Venus's guide to hooking men in Paris (as interpreted by me of course) in 5 simple steps:

Step 1:  Smile.  Most people look sad here in Paris (refer to my metro guide for more detail).  The beautiful part of this that Venus has discovered is that a smile actually counts for something here.  If you want a free drink, smile.  If you want to be noticed, smile.  If you want an in with a French man, smile.

Step 2:  After smiling, this is when you retract the smile, literally and metaphorically.  Venus has reeled in her man with a smile and now she must reject him.  If he professes his love, she appears disinterested.  If he proposes marriage, she tells him he is not going to get any action.  When he asks her to go to Italy, she hesitates.  This step must last at least a week and potentially up to a month - just long enough, but not too long.

Step 3:  Rejection period complete, Venus gives her French man a little leeway again.  This is when he asks her to Spain.  Now is the time to concede, that is, if Venus is still interested.  Which she is, at least vaguely.

Step 4: Go to Spain!

Step 5: Fall in love, at least until it's time to smile again...

Ok.  Now this guide has gotten very specific and kind of hit its own dead-end...really, I just wanted to write a post about Venus...girl has got some game!

Over and out.

Mari's [Paranoid] Metro Guide

Recently while describing my personal metro habits to a friend I noticed that her face was becoming more and more skeptical.  It seemed that my thoughts and practices about taking the metro sounded more and more paranoid as they exited my head.  So, whether or not I am crazy (crazy people don't know they are crazy after all) I have written a little metro guide [for the paranoid]:

1.  First and foremost, body language.  This is essential and multi-faceted.  There is, what we like to call, the "metro face."  Look completely neutral at all times.  Sad even.  Cranky maybe.  Whatever you do, do not smile.  Then, if necessary, cross your arms, look uninviting.  Stand in a way that says, "I am confident, and I don't want to talk to you."

2.  Dress not-outlandishly.  Bright ponchos make some people think that it is ok to say "Good evening" in spite of your best bitch metro face.  Wear what you want, but actually wear black (if you want to blend into the masses).  And no fish nets.

3.  Avoid eye-contact.  They are looking.  You are looking.  You know they are looking; they know you are looking.  But no one is looking, right?

4.  Listen to music!  Or at least put your headphones on.

4b.  Don't dance.  If you ever absolutely feel the need to break it down to your music, a small foot tap is acceptable.

5.  If you feel uncomfortable and you reach your stop, you can wait until the buzzer sounds and run off the train just as the doors close behind you to avoid being followed (by this time you can imagine my friend's face in reaction to my metro tactics...).

Alright, I am joking.  Half-joking.  I'll concede, I smile sometimes on the metro, tap my foot...I even wear a poncho fairly often (read: every day).  I'm just saying, if you want to avoid contact on the metro, my [paranoid] guide works pretty damn well.

"Gastronomic Experiences"

Paris, France.  A land of gourmets and cafés.  With a brasserie on every corner and at least one bakery on every block. Ideal really, except that it is burning a hole in my wallet.  I have 10 euros for lunch every day.  This seemed like a lot until I learned that a thin crêpe with a little cheese and an egg if you're lucky can cost up to 7 of those 10 euros.  Not to mention (but actually to mention) that a coffee, really what an American would call an espresso, usually rings up to about 3.50 euros.  That's 50 cents over my limit already.  Then at about 5pm I am hungry and since I don't usually eat dinner until about 8:30, I need a snack...I think I've made my point.  Food is expensive in Paris.  Well, at least in some areas.  This is an exposé on my search for cheap food in Paris...sometimes delicious, sometimes most politely called a "gastronomic experience."


Tunisian Fast Food, (M) Barbes-Rochechart
As I filed off the metro, I quickly realized I was not in the bougie upscale neighborhood by my apartment any more.  7 stops over on the metro and cheap luggage stores overflowed onto the streets and mingled with large crowds of people trying to sell me things I didn't understand the french word for.  I needed to eat before my independent study, so I hopped out of the rain and into a warm place that looked to have sandwiches, meat, pizza, warm food.  When I ordered the "Poulet Complet" sandwich the man behind the counter laughed.  He pointed to a pan full of giant chicken legs, bone in, and told me that that was what I had ordered.  I paused.  Why not?  "Yeah.  That's what I want."  He laughed again at me.  "No really, I'll try it."  I sat down, and this is what he gave me:

"Poulet Complet"

For 5.50 euros, I literally got an entire chicken leg and breast, a tomato and lettuce sandwich to shove it into, a heap of fries and a coke.  Looks greasy, and it was, but mostly it was delicious.  I wondered why I had been spending practically twice that much on meager crêpes...

Salon Mer & Vigne, (M) Chateau de Vincennes
Today, I went to a food salon.  A gourmet market of sorts, a few friends and I were able to wander from stall to stall and, free of charge, taste cheese, chocolate, wine, apple chips, cookies, more wine, jam, foie gras, you name it.  It was all so tasty and...free!

 Desserts from Brittany

Pizza Cones, Cognac, France
In a trip outside of Paris, to Cognac, France, some friends and I decided that this was too much to pass up:

"Pizza to hold in your hand!"

"Pizza in a cone? For 4 euros? Well...in any case it will be a gastronomical experience, am I right?"  Yes, I was right.  There were four flavors: Italian, Mediterranean, Oriental and Greek.  I was unclear about the difference between Mediterranean and Greek and curious about what Oriental pizza was.  The woman scooped the special sauces into a cone  shaped crust concoction.  There was only enough for one of each pizza...so I went with Oriental.  She placed the cone in a special pizza cone heating machine that twizzled the cones in an out of an oven and handed us our pizza cones piping hot.  Between the eggplants, raisins and somewhat crunchy/hard cone, all I will say about the pizza cone is that is was indeed a gastronomical experience...

"Burger," (M) Les Gobelins
Two thin patties, 2 slices of cheese, some condiments that resemble burger toppings, all grilled in a panini maker...a burger by any other name would taste the same?  Well, kind of...but hey!  Only 6 euros!

The double cheese burger

Cézanne and Shades of Gray

Today I hopped out of the rain and into an exhibit at the Luxembourg Museum, "Cézanne and Paris."  What I didn't realize was that at 4:30pm on a Tuesday afternoon, I would be sharing the museum with what had to be at least 5 retirement home outings...

Okay, not really.  But first I waited a solid 15 minutes behind a line of gray hairs for my ticket and then again to check my dripping coat and umbrella.  Once in the gallery I tried to dodge the slow moving groups, but around every corner were canes and people wearing giant white headphones for their docent tours.  I managed to find a pace ahead of one group laden with canes but behind another and I lost myself in the colors.

Portrait of Victor Chocquet, Paul Cézanne 1877

After observing paintings and trying not to knock into an older man behind me, I overheard his pointed observations to his wife.  

"This one.  This one is rather like Pissarro."

She didn't see it, focusing hard on the painting, eye brows concerned under her sleek gray bob.

"The shades of the roofs and the way the sky is colored."

They were absorbed by the painting.  I was absorbed by them.  Parisians.  They really know their art.

Bords d'une rivière, Paul Cézanne 1904-1905

Throughout the rest of the exhibit I stopped trying to dodge the gray hairs and listened to them instead.  Old men discussed the above landscape for a solid 7 minutes.  Husbands and wives, friends and groups, all there to really see Cézanne.  I had thought the museum was chock full of old people.  But what it was full of was Parisians, art enthusiasts every last one of them.  

Now that's what I call Metro music!

One of the things that most Parisians and I do not seem have in common is my love of the metro performers.  I think it is really fun to watch the different musicians and dancers on the trains and in the stations.  I always have to subdue my smile a bit amidst the crowds of dour faces when performers enter my subway car.

Granted, after a few weeks, I have come to upgrade my tastes a bit.  I won't stop for just any keyboardist playing "My Heart will go on," nor for every saxophonist trilling away (although I have a soft spot for those who play the epic sax guy song...).  Now I prefer those who really go out on a limb.

Today, at the Chatelet station in the center of Paris, I discovered what appears to be metro music central.  Every corner seemed to have musicians playing truly beautiful music, from the lyre to the viola to this chamber orchestra:

Now that's what I call metro music!

Naturally Juicy...

Orangina has an ad campaign to advertise its "Naturally juicy" drink across Paris (I am told this has been going for awhile...but it's pretty hilarious nevertheless).

As I walk from the metro to my apartment, I pass this lovely ad every day:

Don't see anything unusual?  Look closer: 

Yes. Next to your average, old-timey Coca Cola ad is a sexy penguin.  With garters.  And stilettos.  And a CANE.  Trying to sell me on a drink that I already liked...and now I just think is absurd.

Walk a little further, and  you get a sexy Zebra! 

(Pardon the lighting)  Here is the crowning touch!  The accompanying video campaign.  That might be the strangest/funniest commercial I've ever seen...

I wonder if Orangina sales have been up lately?

Stereotypes...

"And if this year you cheat on your lover with your husband?"

If you take a metro today in Paris, you will face many times the lovely advertisement for a new dating website...but this isn't your average dating website.  It is called Gleeden and it is a website created by women specifically for extramarital dating.  I guess finding a love outside of one's marriage par hazard is out of style these days.  Or maybe people are too impatient to wait around for their lover to come along.

In any case, with the click of a mouse, people across the world can have a not so dangerous liason.  And I can have a good laugh every time I take the metro.

(On a side note...I still think it's funny that my name means  'husband' in French...)

First Adventure

Alright.  I'm in Paris. I arrive, I dine in a café.  I see the Louvre from my hotel room, the Eiffel Tower from the living room in my bougie apartment.  Life is well, parfait!  LA TEE DAAAAAAA.

Ok.  So down to the real stuff.  The nitty gritty.  For example: what is going on with "les toilettes?"  In my first tour of  the lovely apartment where I am staying (no sass here, I couldn't be more lucky), I am directed by my chic host mom in the green eyeliner specially to this sign:

Okay.  Fair enough.  Old apartment.  Be careful with the toilet...no biggie.  Wait.  What?  Electric toilet?  What does that even mean?  I'm no tech-y, but I know that water and electricity don't mix...And at least in my limited experience with the "W.C. Électrique," neither do electricity and toilets...

So what is an electric toilet?  Sadly, Wikipedia can't help me on this one.  Upon further research, apparently, I could buy one with "pleasant dimensions" for 800 euros.  The point would be to pulverize or incinerate the waste somewhere in or around the toilet...cool, I guess, especially in a big city the likes of Paris.  Still, I must be missing the point here.

Over and out...maybe next time I'll write about something more classy.  Perhaps a visit to the Sewer Museum?