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.