Ways With Words

Christmas and Commercialism

Jeudi 8 Decembre

The Christmas decorations in Paris are stylish and muted – unlike England. The ice rink outside Hôtel de Ville only starts on the 10^th.  I have been pontificating about a country with strong Catholic roots not wanting to commercialise a religious celebration. Then we went to the Christmas market which stretches from the top of the Champs-Elysées to the Place de la Concorde. The biggest and best in Paris we read but we’d say the biggest and worst. Forget non-commercialisation of Christmas here. Think instead of the Winter wonderland in Hyde Park. We rushed by in our judgemental way.

Earlier that day we walked along the Boulevard St. Germain. There we lingered over more creative Christmas stalls. We revisited Rue de Seine; a favourite street from our past. There were even more galleries than we remembered. Two had black and white photographs by Mario Giacomelli. We were entranced by his photographs of lively, running and dancing priests with flowing robes and his stripy landscape shots of ploughed fields. Familiar pictures but we didn’t recognize his name. For old times sake we had lunch at La Palette where artists meet – apparently. 

A new addition to the museum scene is musee du quai Branly, “Where cultures meet in dialogue” is its strap line. We had read about the extraordinary building designed by Jean Nouval. Aptly described – the building was an experience in itself. I am very interested in Oceanic art so enjoyed the whole experience – “an innovative and diversified approach to non-Western cultures”. We spent a long time in an extensive Maori exhibition.

A friend Diana had recommended the restaurant, Chez Omar, but had no address. We stumbled across it on Rue de Bretagne so went for dinner. It was great fun: very cheap, very cheerful. There were always about 20 people waiting for tables.

The waiter insisted I had what appeared to be a fig biscuit with my coffee. Not figgy biscuits as we know them.

 

Vendredi 9 Decembre

We can’t believe it is our last day. So much we still want to do.

I called in at a clothes shop I had been admiring all week. Some flamboyant clothes in glittery brocade, some restrained shift dresses in black linen: "I could dress myself from here", I told Steve. "You could but it would close the business" he said, when he saw the simplest dress was over 400 euros. I particularly liked the army beds along one wall filled with grey linen cushions.

Diana had recommended Musee Carnavalet too so we decided to go there. “The most outstanding buildings in the Marais”, we read. The museum is housed in 2 buildings. It has over 100 rooms filled with paintings, models and displays showing Paris’ history. We saw loads but missed Proust’s bedroom. I decided I needed to learn more about the French Revolution so shall start by rereading ‘A Tale of Two Cities’.

Definitely a place for another visit.

Lunch at another memorable, very busy, very French restaurant.

We planned to go to Madeleine to see a Giacometti exhibition, to go to Jeu de Paume, but we couldn’t bear to leave the lovely Marais. Instead spent an hour reading on the sofa under the Gary Hume. This evening we had snacks at Café de Progres. Kate said they make the best Croque Monsieur she has ever had and she’s right.

I read that Paris is the city of small studio flats which is why the cafés and restaurants are so full. We loved the space in this flat and lingered in the mornings and evenings yet we also loved sitting on heated café terraces watching all life go by.

So sad our week is over. Au Revoir le Marais, l'appartement fomidable and all the delights of Paris.

 

 

Locomotives and Hunting – we act out of character

Tuesday 6 December

We had a list of Monday closings but now it was Tuesday in Paris and time to catch up with galleries, restaurants, shops, life.

Not far away is La Passage de Retz, a former toy factory but now a gallery for contemporary art. This turned out to be simple, abstract collages from ripped paper by two artists whose names I can’t remember which is a bit shameful as we liked their work. I was even more taken by the building. From the main gallery space was a zinc, spiral staircase leading to a balcony. Steve tried to convince me it would not look right in our 16^th century farmhouse but I’m not so sure.

Chloe and Videl went to see Musée de la Chasse when they were staying here. We wouldn’t have considered visiting a museum of hunting but I trusted their judgment so we dutifully shot along. (Any metaphor I chose suggested hunting or animals: shot, trotted, flew, galloped, skulked, prowled, crept – funny). The museum was quite amazing. Unusual avante garde art was on display amongst stuffed animals (Scary, Theo would say) and traditional paintings; there were exquisite wooden cupboards with drawers that opened to show animal poo and other curios; you could press buttons and hear bird song. We spent ages surprisingly mesmerized by hunting displays.

Did much wandering around discovering strangely, quiet places and quietly, strange places. (I wish I’d said this but I’m quoting from an art book.) Then on to a less quiet place : Musée des Arts Decoratifs. I’d imagined this would be small but I was wrong. Fortunately we had a fortifying lunch there at Le Saint de Loup. We could have seen decorative arts from medieval times but decided to concentrate on the 20^th century. We enjoyed designer chairs from 1960 onwards accompanied by film extracts where the furniture had appeared. We had sat in similar Eames chairs while visiting friends recently. We should have been filmed.

Most extraordinary was the retrospective exhibition of Jean Paul Gorde’s work – a flamboyant icon of fashion, advertising, photography. The centerpiece was a giant locomotive, installed because of Gorde’s celebrations for the bi-centenary of the French Revolution. There were videos from the display with Margaret Thatcher looking entertained. 

We checked out Colette, because everyone says you should. Expensive and boring. Give me a department store like Merci.

Finished the day at a concert in Notre Dame of Renaissance songs. Haunting music.

Well – didn’t quite finish the day at Notre Dame but stopped at Café Charlot for ear wagging and drinks. Fastly spoken French sounds so intense I can’t believe these conversations aren’t about existentialism and the meaning of life.

Merci for Merci

Monday 5 December

We thought we had missed Merci and then we saw the small yard full of white Christmas trees and a red car with the registration MERCI. Ha ha. Kate had recommended this department store but didn’t say I’d find it bliss. We nearly didn’t go. A department store suggests John Lewis and I could never get excited about John Lewis whereas Merci . . . It wasn’t that I wanted to buy anything but I could have bought everything: misshapen pottery, murky coloured towels, wonky glass vases, non-glittery baubles for Christmas, but most of all I wanted to buy the oatmeal coloured cement floors, the grey metal stairs, the iron pipes. This was industrial shabbiness on an industrial scale. Kate wasn’t to know it was what I love.

After wandering from floor to floor and buying waffled face clothes in grey and mustard and a white porcelain squashed vase we had coffee in the café. This was called “The Used Book Café”. That says it all. It was a floor to ceiling, book-lined room with dim lighting from old glass chandeliers and strong coffee. It took a lot of effort to move from the Merci café but out there was Paris. 

The Pompidou Centre by comparison seemed conventional. We took the elevators up and up. I am reminded of the time we saw the exhibition L’Année Pop and 60s pop music blared as we ascended – and descended – several times as I was enjoying the nostalgia. The shop and bookshop need as much time as the gallery. I bought a book on myths about Banksy. I read that a man walked along the queues of Banksy’s exhibition in Bristol patting people; then they found they all had a sticker on their backs saying, “Idiot”. Was the mysterious back-patter Banksy or not? I hope it was him.

The Niki de St. Phalle sculptured fountain was colourful and around it were lots of wall paintings/graffiti. Friends of Banksy?

Steve wanted to see the Seine. We crossed the bridge to Notre Dame and were drawn inside by candles and choral music. Despite our lack of belief we like to pay our Euros and light candles. He for his mother, me for grandsons. The Christmas Crib was huge with loads of tulips – not very Merci.

Back to the flat through the lit-up Marais. Not very marshy now.

 

 

 

 

Is Monday the New Sabbath in Paris?

Sunday 4 December

I expected Sunday to be very quiet on the streets of Paris. Surely everyone will be at Mass followed by a large family lunch? Obviously my stereotypes are many years out of date. Rue de Bretagne was even busier than Saturday. Many stalls lined the streets selling desirable bric a brac like globes and old anglepoise lamps. Kate’s favourite bookshop, Comme un Roman, was full of browsing readers. Surely they’d love a literature festival? There was a long queue at the bread shop. When I tasted their buttery croissants I knew why. Café Charlot, opposite the market, was filled with young, talkative, black clad, espresso drinkers. Not all my stereotypes are wrong.

My red gloves were out of place – not very Simone de Beauvoir.

Later we walked around Canal St Martin at the 10^th arrondisement. At this point Paris became Amsterdam. There were lovely old locks; high wrought iron bridges; people on bikes and leaves in the canal. We found a brocante market. We often visit these in the Dordogne where they are called Vide Greniers, but I expect there aren’t many greniers to empty in Paris. In Perigord we have the car to carry old jam jars and pots. Here we were frustrated by the thought of our Eurostar travel when there were so many old leather chairs we wanted.

Browsing our guides I see that lots of places are closed on Mondays. Maybe that’s when everyone goes to Mass.

I Think Therefore I Am – particularly in Paris

Saturday 3 December

When we arrived at St. Pancras to get the Eurostar I had a Margaret Drabble moment. In her new volume of short stories Margaret Drabble writes of a woman who is very excited by trains going to foreign destinations. I felt the same. In a very short time we would be in the heart of the Marais with elegant Parisians drinking wine, smoking aromatic cigarettes and discussing politics and philosophy. And we were.

Clutching Kate’s artistic and thorough guide we arrived at the big doors and entered. We climbed the wooden, spiral staircase to the 3^rd floor. As she wrote, C’est formidable. If we were on a television programme to guess who owned such a flat we would be saying, “Striking, modern art; wooden floors throughout; minimalist, stylish furniture: must be an art dealer or designer.” Spot on! We explored the rooms, shouting with pleasure. In the end bedroom we saw a wooden K and T and deduced that was Kate and Ted’s room and so ours for the week. Out of the windows we saw typical Parisian buildings with iron shutters and balconies and perfectly proportioned windows.

Opposite the flat was a restaurant packed with Parisians having long lunches. We went to join them then turned to Kate’s personal guide again. Rue de Bretagne, Le Marche des Enfants Rouge (why is it so called, we wondered), Café le Progres, Les Succulents de Cactus, galleries, quirky shops: we enjoyed them all. Then back to the flat for a late afternoon rest and read.

We wanted a simple, unfussy but French scene for dinner and found it at Robert et Louise: a crowded, shabby restaurant with large tables, unmatching chairs and a huge fire where they grilled meat, including our wooden boards full of lamb steaks. Very Café Oto, we thought, very us.

Back to Le Progres, as we now call it, for coffee and cognac and to absorb Saturday Night French Fever.

The peace and beauty of “our” flat was very welcome – so was bed.