Malgré tout je t'aime...

Art Paris

2009-03-23T05:57:00.000-07:00

I went to Art Paris today.

It was weird.

I don't know what I was expecting. I guess maybe something like a biennial. Instead, I got a giant commercial free for all in the general area of art or at least things that somebody somewhere made for some non-utilitarian reason. I know that this sounds harsh but seriously, the busiest booth was a "gallery" that sells large prints of stills from classic films!

The second busiest booth was a company that rents fine art in the form of abstract paintings tomatch any decor. Really.

Poor Tony Ousler's piece, Ghost Cloud, looked terrible if you noticed it at all. It was hung in broad daylight under a skylight- sabotage!

The entry fee was 15 € unless you are an artist (and can prove it - whatever that means) or if you reserved a space in advance and brought a print out of your receipt. I saw a man try to show his receipt on an iphone- no-go monsieur. He didn't get the discount rate of 10 €. Still a bit pricey in my opinion.

The first things that caught my eye were these stained glass windows.

Paris is a city of stained glass windows and I thought it was kind of ballsy to show stained glass in Paris. They were big and clunky in comparison to the richly detailed windows of the cathedrals but I liked the cocky subject matter. The artist is Phillipe Perrin, he likes guns.

But there is more- this really strange thing happened. I asked the gallerist some general fluff question about the artist (just as an excuse for my lingering and in response to her staring) and she said, "Well, why don't you ask him yourself," and pointed to the stylish, long-haired, 40 something man in a red kafia and sunglasses seated at the desk. He stood up and kissed my hand. "Uhmmm... I like your work." Ok, it was definitely time to go. But later when I looked him up on line, I realized that the guy who introduced himself as Philipe Perrin was not him at all. The guy at the show was about 15 years younger, taller and just simply not him. Weird. Do French galleries have hottie fake artist stand-ins on staff to help sell art? Astounding.

Sandra Vasquez de la Horra won the Guerlain Foundation prize for drawing. These are charcoal on manila paper- that stuff you got for class in kindergarten.

There was a lot of stuff I just didn't understand. It was mind boggling and after hours of wandering around the show I started scolding the world.

Stop using sex!

Stop trying to be cute!

Stop telling jokes!

You are kidding- right?

Stop being angry!

You made this because you hate me- don't lie!

Stop it! just stop it!

But I didn't hate everything...

Zhao Bandi

And this- it looked like art to me. There wasn't a gallery card but I was pretty sure. I looked it up on line later and it is an untitled piece by Michael DeLucia, RISD, BFA, 2001! Excellent.

Li Wei This- I really identified with this.

For the Love of Dog

2009-03-21T05:07:00.000-07:00

I asked Sébastien why all the homeless people here have dogs, dogs of all sizes and breeds, from sweet giant muts to dainty little Shi-tzus.

He told me that there is a Paris law that if you have a dog you can not be arrested and forced into a public shelter.

Carmen: "You mean if you have a dog you can be left to die in the street."

Sébastien: "No, anyone can be left to die in the street."

Carmen: "So the French don't mind if you die in the street they just don't want you to be alone when you go."

Sébastien: "Yes, you should not be alone when you die."

The thinking by the authorities is that if you are put into jail or a shelter, who would be left to care for your dog.

A Long Train Ride

2009-03-20T04:04:00.000-07:00

We made the trip back to Paris today. On the train over I sat facing the back of the train and so when I looked out the window it looked as if I was going away from everything instead of as if I were going towards everything- I was continually leaving.

We passed through the Ardennes region of Belgium. It was really beautiful with rolling green hills, patches of dense forest in the distance and picturesque farmland.

This is the area where the Battle of the Bulge was fought. Nearly 20,000 men died on these fields. Now look at the land, there isn't a hint of all the suffering that took place. I wonder if the food grown here tastes different. Is the fruit bitter? I know it seems perverse to mention but it is a perversion of another sort to pass through this land and not to think of it.

STEIM

2009-03-13T06:20:00.000-07:00

Amsterdam is so wonderful.

People smile, they ride bicycles, they drink good beer and there is sunlight.

Kevin and I are here for a residency at STEIM and to make a presentation on the Digital Poplar Consort, a set of electronic instruments we made together in his mom's kitchen.

We haven't been doing much touring because of the preparations for the lecture but I have been taking little breaks to play with my camera.

Portrait of Kevin and Carmen in Holland

I was trying to make myself stay inside and work.

Can you guys guess which one is me?

Kevin and Butch and Ulrich rocked the house- really! look at this--- a man bowing a guitar, a man bowing a cello and a man bowing a clarinet- SO HOT!

Here we are at the lecture. Thanks to Butch for taking the picture.
There are so many pictures of me looking like this at presentations. You don't have to tell me I look like a buffy- I know it. I hate it -but there is also something totally satisfying about making a presentation on some really esoteric topic like in this case nonreferential gestural interfaces for music performance- in latina academic artist buffy biodrag which of course includes a set of rhinestone hair pins and extra lipstick.

But this wasn't the weirdest incarnation of ethnodrag gone awry. Look at this-what the hell!?!?

This was in the window of a Mexican restaurant.

I can say with certainty that there are no polar bears in Mexico.

Apparently the Dutch don't know that.

We saw a concert of augmented instruments in a converted hospital. This is the entryway to the Smart Project Space.

The main gallery and concert hall is housed in what used to be the Anatomy and Pathophysiology wing of the hospital. (Please don't click the following link if you are easily affected by medical imagery.) I was really distracted by what I know used to happen here.

It was a heavy space.

This is Robert playing a set in the concert hall.

Here is the second, smaller gallery space.

The main gallery was closed for installation at the time.

They have a hip bar with fresh flowers on the tables and techno on the sound system.

Amsterdam was good.

We got so much work done.

We saw old friends

When it was time go it didn't feel like we were going back to Paris. It felt like we were leaving Amsterdam. Boo hoo!

Mini Chelsea in Paris- Sort of.

2009-03-09T05:04:00.000-07:00

I made myself go into the city today. I am beginning to get an idea about art in Paris. It is hard to know what to think really because Paris is a lie- a sweet, sweet lie but a lie all the same.

In general, the scene in Paris seems pretty conservative- stretching is digital photography and maybe a little video. Art lives on the wall. When it's being really naughty Paris goes on a date with Andy Warhol.

Paris is very naughty this month.

Art is something most people would like to buy and sell and keep and lend to museums.

It usually involves a lot of paint.

Is it that everyone's brains are swimming in gorgeous classic architecture, that the Louvre exists, that Rodin worked here, that Picasso worked here? The list of brilliant dead artists is endless and the scene can't get over it? But I am being totally unfair. I've only really investigated the government supported museums, those gorgeous, enormous art sinks.

I love them! I hate them!

I would have to do more research. So I went to the Rue Vieille de Temple, an area known for it's concentration of commercial galleries. Perhaps the tooth and nail level would offer something more adventurous. This is what I found:

The smallest elevator in the world.

Gorgeous, enormous, spaces- so sleek, so professional...

and still so old world

these are the stairs to

Galerie Serge le Borgne

a good option if you are too claustrophobic to use the elevator.

You don't see them from the street. They are tucked away in a courtyard behind thick carved wood doors.

They all close from 12 to 1430. Art can't happen on an empty stomach.

Sorry, art can't be sold on an empty stomach- a totally different matter.

Serge is having a Marina Abramović show now. It is all photography

with one video- The Onion, 1996

This is the entry way to Galerie Xippas.
I had trouble making myself leave this stairwell. The light, the colors- you really feel wonderful just standing here.

This is their main gallery. Lovely- but again more stuff to put on the wall.

The Galerie Yvonne Lambert was "exceptionally closed."

I also noticed a really bizarre thing-- you know at the Louvre, at the Musee Jue de paume, Musee D'Orsay, etc., etc., etc. there is a real joy about. The throngs of tourists and students and local art lovers are all laughing and taking pictures, wide-eyed and happy to be in the presence of what the cultures of the world all unanimously accept as great art.

The Rue Vieille de Temple was very different.

People scowled, stepped quickly and seemed weighed down by their fashionable black suits. There was a palpable anxiety in the air. I saw several young men in paint stained overalls carrying large canvases carefully wrapped in bubble wrap. They didn't look happy. The gallery spaces were quiet, somber rooms. Visitors whispered, no docents, no windows.

Seriously, it was weird.

Maybe it is the stress of being where you still have to prove yourself. This work is for sale instead of "priceless." This work is being judged, reputations are being made or destroyed. I never noticed this in Chelsea but maybe it is because there weren't so many people on the street. Maybe everyone in Chelsea feels it too and if they all were to come out onto the sidewalks and look at each other's faces it would be obvious the way it is on the Rue Vieille de Temple.

But not to end on such a pessimistic note I did see this little gem of wonderfully unsalable work- it is going to ring familiar to some of you- you know who you are...

I've Grown Ferril and Unkempt

2009-03-06T13:22:00.000-08:00

Kevin and I came back to Paris- much against my better judgment. Our visas were renewed at the border without question. The sun was out. Huffing towards the hill with full pack we saw this-

A RAINBOW! Seriously, Paris, woman please I can't stand to see you beg.

Kevin left for Germany the next day and I was left alone to write the Rhizome midterm report and to "work." Ugh! I am so weird when I am

alone.

I like to stare at strangers.

I like to pick flowers out of other people's yards- they'll grow back and bushier too.

I decided to stay inside.
That would be best.
Why startle the neighbors?

But then I ran out of food.
It was time to go to the market.
Chennevieres-sur-Marne has a Sunday market- perfect.

I knew I would have to carry everything back 1.5 kilometers up an incline that puts College Hill to shame. I knew I would have to plan carefully, I would have to be practical. There was only one thing to do.

Wear the running shoes!

In retrospect I realize it was a crazy thing to do but I had been alone for 4 days!

The market was super. There were so many bakers and fromagiers, there were the pretty young women with the fish,

the flowers

the table of olives and all the farmers! You know if you are feeling down ladies, there is one sure cure for the blues- the French farmer. On the outside he appears an average man, he is bipedal, sometimes rather handsome, but here's the thing- he will yell out to you about peppers and pears, about apples and apricots, he will compare your beauty to that of a head of lettuce!

As you can see this is quite a compliment.

He doesn't care what shoes you have on. He is primal and earthy- oh yes.
He will sing out,
"A beautiful woman deserves a beautiful fruit."
This is so true, tell me more...

I bought pâté and black olives and mimolette. I bought a gorgeous pear, of course, and sage and coconut macaroons and red peppers as sweet as apples and fresh eggs.

I forgot that I would be dining alone that night.

So what.

The willow in the garden is in bloom.

The daffodils in the yard are sprouting.

On the way up the hill I was looking left. You can see the Eiffel Tower from the entire walk up Avenue de Pont. It's my game to look for it. It always seems to be hiding. I don't know how it happened but I stepped right off the sidewalk into on-coming traffic- no I didn't die, I wasn't even maimed- not even a little bit. I was scared half to death as was the driver that almost ground me into the asphalt. Pear and cheese and peppers went flying. The olives scattered all across the street. The eggs were miraculously saved. A woman was walking up the hill behind me as I collected myself and the groceries. She seemed completely unimpressed by the fact that someone was almost killed before her very eyes. As she stepped over me, I was still gropping for peppers, I saw her look at my shoes and then at me with a disapproving smirk. I know it sounds crazy but I could have sworn she said

"You know better than to go out like that."

If It I'nt Scottish It's Crap!

2009-03-02T09:07:00.000-08:00

We are in Scotland to visit Katie, Kevin's sister, Cathal, her husband and Eoin, number one son and Patrick, number two son. (Number three son is on the way.) It was great. Katie is the sort of homemaker that makes you wonder how it's done: wonderful home, beautiful family, happy marriage- everything and she's in school too. Magic? We cooked, we drank and then we walked and then we came home and cooked and then ate and drank some more. Lovely. I wanted to be stressed about leaving Paris- I really did. How could I leave? I hadn't really done anything yet.

The village was gorgeous, covered in blue fog.
I've learned that this is a technique of Paris- just be beautiful and everyone will forgive you everything- as a victim- I can say, it works.

Not to mention that the

Eiffel Tower seemed to have me in some sort of psychic tractor beam.

I got over it real quick.

Ok, first of all let me say that Scotland, aside from being ruggedly beautiful, is populated by normal size people hence there tend to be normal size bathrooms. No more puppy tubs no sir!

The McCorrys live in Burnt Island, a town, actually a royal burgh that looks out onto the North Sea, actually it is on the Firth of Forth which is actually an estuary that flows into the North Sea but I can't go on about that because the details alone make me feel too much like I am in a Monty Python skit.

One day we took a stroll up the Monks Walk, a thousand year old path,

leading up to the Fife Costal path.

The views were breathtaking.

This is Rossend Castle.

Ok, get this: Rossend, built in 1119 and extended in 1382 and in 1563, was on the verge of demolition! In 1970 a motley crew of architects banded together to save it. They launched protests, initiated petitions and in the end chained themselves to the crumbling ruin in order to save it! Today it has been refurbished, fitted with electricity and it now houses the brave architects' offices.
In the US we have tree huggers - in Scotland there are castle huggers-

Awesome!

the late afternoon was gorgeous

Some incidentals for your review:

This is a shot of an abandoned airbase that reminded me of what Marfa must have looked like before Donald Judd went there.

Here is another view of the base. If only I had a giant pile of English pounds. What a place this could be.

This is a remnant of a wall partly destroyed by Cromwell- sometime in the mid 17th century.

We think this may have been part of an ancient mill. It is unmarked and pedestrians just stumble upon it. This gorgeous ruin just happens to be lying around. I love this!

This a well. Uh huh, a well.

In Scotland they have ENORMOUS earthworms. Eoin and I rescued one from sure death on the sidewalk.

Can I please live here- PULEEEZZZEEEEE!
Dear God, I promise never to talk trash about -well, about anyone but especially not about the Pope (it will be really hard but I'll do it) if you just let me live here- for free and with Wifi and telephone to the US and Mexico...

Chistophe!

2009-02-28T17:15:00.000-08:00

Ok, ok just one more ridiculous Paris metro add. You can imagine how compromising it was to take this picture - but I just had to do it.
Ok, ok, here is what it says:

Christophe is beautiful, soft yet firm, something like the comfort you get in a Sensoft matress from Simmons.

Teehee.

Is this what sells mattresses in Paris? Apparently, but look his chones are saggy! Are they just coming on or about to come off? It's a mystery. I just don't know, he's giving us Blue Steele but I really need to see Magnum. Merci, mais, non.

Pseudo Psychotic Episode on the Paris Metro

2009-02-28T07:24:00.000-08:00

Sometimes... when I'm on the metro, alone, unfortunately or fortunately, alone- I look up and see this:

It is an advertisement for language classes.

It starts with a giggle, god, I can't help it. Then I notice his indignant little index finger. How cute, how totally English! Then I always laugh out loud. Poor thing, he's wounded, he needs a nurse! Then I remember finding an entire Greek temple in the British Museum, the whole thing! all of it. There is only a plaque left in Kushadshi! As a Chicana, it's my only heartfelt issue with the English- at the moment. So then I don't feel so bad for laughing. Maybe the French are still pissed off about Agincourt. No wait, they are for sure still pissed about Agincourt.

The slogan is Arretez de Massacre l'Anglais! Stop massacring the English! But how can the French help it!??! They've been wanting to open up that can of whoop ass for centuries. It's just too much and soon I am laughing out loud like a mad woman. I simply can't help myself- it happens every time. I just really thought I should share.

Here is his little friend. I like him too.

Ha!

The Absolute Best Thing Ever!

2009-02-27T06:31:00.000-08:00

Ok, I know I already called something the best thing ever. It is true the nougat was wonderful but I have discovered a French delicacy that deserves the superlative even more.

Voilà! Le Macaron de Herme!

These were truly amazing- no exageration, just the lightest simultaneously crispy and creamy thing ever. This is the rose petal crème macaron!!! Another favorite was the wasabi and pamplemousse. Pamplemousse (quite possibly my favorite French word) means grapefruit. I know it sounds improbable but really- it was delicious. By the time I post this I will have come and gone to Scotland and tried to carry these babies through the airport. They don't travel well at all even in their decorative clear plastic carrying case. They will have arrived, each a little dented, their smooth exterior crust speckled with crumbs, but every bit as yummy. I hope to bring some back for sampling stateside.

In the House of God

2009-02-26T15:53:00.000-08:00

I finally made it to the Louvre today.

It was amazing.

It was embarrassing. It was gorgeous and it was humbling. I was astounded at the architecture of course, the sheer size of it, the intricacy of the carvings on surfaces high and low,

the magestic arched halls,

the painted ceilings, the gleaming floors- everything. I kept having brief moments of eye contact with strangers that would make me realize that I was walking around with my jaw hanging open. Embarrassed, I would cut my gaze to the floor, snap my lips shut and go on again until the next stranger reminded me to close my mouth and check for drool.

Someone used to live here.

I started at the Denon wing and just walked. I didn't make it far. There were enormous marble sculptures everywhere of classic figures, burly men and buxom women but something wasn't right. I don't know why I noticed- but the female figures all had uncleft vaginas! What? How could someone miss that?

Artists please!

Do these guys look a little concerned to you?

I was unable to process anything at all, I had a map in my hand and still I was completely lost. It didn't occur to me to ask anyone about anything. There were, however, these unsightly little signs everywhere directing visitors to La Gioconda.

And so like everyone else I was led like a schoolgirl to the Mona Lisa.

The scene reminded me of communion.

I fumbled through the crowds until I found her.

wow.

I was not expecting her to be so marvelous. She is so incredibly SEXY. Every written thing mentions her smile but you don't feel it until you stand in front of it and just look. I've read "enigmatic," "ambiguous," "inscrutable," LO QUE SEA, it reads clearly, unmistakeably,
like a really hot
$@)%#
-period-

Seriously, from whence cometh all the doubt? The need for a scandal? A marketing ploy? What?

I was surprised really because it doesn't come through on even the best photographs. Historians allegedly wonder why the picture was never delivered, why Leonardo kept it with him until his dying day. Standing in front of the small frame, struggling to see it over the giggling hordes of tourists it didn't seem like so much of a mystery to me.

I would have kept it too- commission be damned!

Directly accross from the lacivious Mona Lisa there is Paolo Caliari's gigantic

Les Noces de Cana.

The painting is nice but what is up with Jesus!?!?

He looks so akward- he is definitely not having a good time. Really, you can kind of tell in this closeup shot but it is entirely obvious in the real thing. It was so sad to consider uncomfortable little Jesus eternally watching the licentious Mona Lisa getting all the attention while he's busting ASS turning water into wine.

Hours later, I was still wandering around, slack jawed and dumb, marveling at all the buttery nude skin on the walls, the taught tendons of so many Greek and Roman warriors, avoiding the Venus de Milo and hoping I would stumble back onto the door soon.

When someone talked to me.

At that very moment I was actaully standing in front of Celine's favorite painting, Le Radeau de la Méduse and feeling some neurotic pressure to be astute even if only in thought to myself. It is transfixing, the horror on the men's faces, the pale deathly tone of their skin. The emotional intensity is hypnotizing. The voice, a whisper actually, right in my ear, "Isn't it beautiful," broke me out of the spell.

Damn it.

I turned around, hopefully with my mouth closed but honestly I can't remember, and saw a very daper gentelman in fedora and scarf, smiling and standing altogether too close to me. He was so cool and handsome and felt a million years older than me- but in a really good way. When I responded, who knows what I said, he knew I wasn't French and so continued in such a suave English that it occurred to me to just run away. Clearly, I was in danger. Then it happened, "What do you do," he asked. "I'm an artist, I responded." I choked on the words -just a little bit- but I choked on the words?!? In the house of God, I lost my nerve and for a moment questioned my faith.

Almost instantly I said, "I'm sorry, I'm married, I really shouldn't talk to you." He smiled and then bowed and responded, "I see, thank you for telling me, have a beautiful day."

In retrospect I wonder if he might not have been Satan, he fits my mother's description precisely.

I finally made it outside, nervous and grateful and craving a Hollywood love scene cigarette.

Near Death Experience at Likafo

2009-02-24T12:06:00.000-08:00

Fictional recipe developed in a desperate effort to explain the horror of #351 at Likafo Chinese Restaurant, 39 Avenue Choisy Paris, France:

Take 1/2 cup sweetened Lipton ice tea powder and add enough water to make a paste, set aside at room temperature.

Take 1/4 cup full sodium soy sauce and

and combine with

1/4 cup white vinegar.

Set aside at room temperature. Add the soy and vinegar solution to the tea paste and mix thoroughly.

Pour over lightly fried dark meat chicken bits.

DEAR FRIENDS AVOID EATING HERE AT ALL COSTS!

Notice how I have cleverly relocated the bits of meat around the plate to look as if I ate something!

There was only one other diner at the restaurant at the time but the place is well recommended on the blogs and so we thought we would try it. He was a large man, serious and elegant. He reminded me, actually he looked exactly like Ving Rhames, as Marcellus Wallace in Quentin Tarantino's Pulp Fiction. Initially he seemed to be enjoying his meal but after a few short minutes I picked up on his tell. He would take up his paper napkin wipe his mouth then drag it veritcally across his forehead, then all around his shiny bald scalp. He did this approximately every 3 minutes throughout his meal (I was keeping track.) I didn't mean to stare but I thought I should be prepared to leap into action should he need help. I was compelled to keep a watchful eye. I decided to stop eating. Kevin carried on valiantly and several hours later seems well and unaffected by what I am sure was a meal slathered in MSG not mention coated in enough salt to cure a side of beef.

Diner beware!

Le Marche aux Puces

2009-02-23T15:01:00.000-08:00

Zara and John are going to be married under a chuppah.

I love this idea, a canopy of love in the form of cloth, held up by a community of friends and family - what could be more perfect- I just don't know.

from a message to Zara...

The moment I read this I thought, were will I go to find antique French fabric? There is a market on what used to be the outskirts of town (in the 1880s). It was started by men who would comb the city at night looking for discarded items that might still have some worth. They would go just outside the city gate at the Porte de Clignancourt to resell their tattered wares. They became known as the pêcheurs de lune (fishermen of the moon) because they searched the streets only at night. I just think this concept is so romantic, so French, to turn the anxiety and hunger of scavengers into poetry. The market has since grown to be the largest of its type in the world and it is marvelous. I am sure that all the dusty treasures on the tables could tell a thousand secrets. I am going to go there to find a piece of cloth with a love story to tell. I can't wait to see what find for you.

I found everything-nothing. I was lost for hours in the dingy alley ways and the impossibly charming cobbled streets- for hours! There were amazing chandeliers hanging over chaise lounges embroidered with red and gold thread, sets that looked as if they had been pillaged from Versailles itself.

There were moldy leather telescopes...

and rickety wooden chairs and torn leather capes all so beautiful -awesome in their own yearning ways.

But I was looking for a piece of cloth, something that looked like a noble lady out one night with her gallant suitor, you know something really sweet like that.

Everywhere, I kept finding these lovely little bits of delicate white lace, torn and sometimes yellowed, piled in wicker baskets, stacked messily on an old table or warming under a vendor's snooty lap dog. But god, they all looked so sad and forgotten. There was nothing cherished about them. It was electric to take off my glove and fondle something so fragile and so charged with other people's troubles. I had to say never mind none of this would do. But I kept walking. I met a suspicious older man who offered to walk with me. He insisted I would need help looking for love in the form of antique lace. Uhm, thanks but no. He wouldn't let me take his picture because I wouldn't let him take mine-fair is fair. There was nothing striking about his look anyway, the look of a Gaul.

He was helpful in defending me from the wrath of the proprietor of this shop of plastic jewelry.
I snapped a single photo and she went mad! Yelling and screaming from behind what must have been an entire tube of lipstick and at least a tub of mascara. "It's so private what you have invaded!" I wanted to say "Well then why is it on a table at a market?!?" The Gaul said it for me. "Madam if you don't want me to see your panties then why do you lift up your skirt?" Uhmmm... thanks? I don't just don't know about that guy.

There was however this terribly sweet crêpe maker, a young man who should be swept away to Hollywood to play the role of the nerdy hero in some amorous techno-drama.

He helped me when I was lost and couldn't find my way out of the market and he makes a mean Nutella crêpe

And then on the outside of the market, still totally lost, while looking for the metro I found the past. It was what the market might have been like when the rag and bone men, the fishermen of the moon, would bring their tattered wares to the outskirts of the city to sell.

It was entirely different than the antique markets and the trendy one off hip-hop boutiques. I was a little bit frightened. There was something there. If I had an entire year to spend on this corner I might not ever learn what.

Studio Blues

2009-02-22T03:05:00.000-08:00

It's really difficult to work in Paris, no space, beautiful people everywhere and the architecture! So I'm a little bit mushed all the time. The weather is making things worse and Paris isn't really enough to make up for it. Yes, I know I can't believe I just said that either. Paris is supposed to be everything wonderful and it is -sort of. I found this video on Rachelle's blog and it made me feel a little better. I just love her face. It is Elizabeth Gilbert speaking about creativity and making. She looks so nervous yet hopeful that it will all work out somehow and it seems honest and real. Thanks Rachelle!

We Hit the Mother Load!

2009-02-21T04:59:00.000-08:00

So there has been a dark serpent choking our lives since we got to Paris. (rationale provided by Anjali.) Many things have gone wrong, the flu, visa mix up, universities on strike (more on this later), and now Kevin's computer is:

dead again.

A computer had to be purchased- CRISIS!

US Amazon won't ship to France. You must buy from Amazon.fr which means you pay more and in eruos.

No deal GIANT CORPORATE EVILDOER!

Someone recommended Darty, a French store which bills itself as the Best Buy of France–too expensive and with staff that appear to be deaf, dumb and possibly blind. IT must have been the hand of God keeping us from making a terrible mistake. (things are looking up!) The scene at Darty kind of reminded me of Oh Brother Where Art Thou when the Christians in the forest ignore the protagonists. Lucky for us Kevin didn't jump in the river.

We decided to rest from diving into every storefront anywhere. Hungry, grumpy and hopeless we sought sanctuary in the park in front of

St. Eustache. We walked up to it entirely by accident- WOW.

Thanks to French common sense or mercy or whatever, there is free wifi in public parks. We were able to find out about Surcouf just before our finger tips began to turn blue from the cold. The iphone was developing a slight frost. This place is large and has a wide range of stock with somewhat better prices. But they were still much above the prices we found online. Then it dawned on us. What have we always done when in doubt, what tactic has never failed us?

Call Sébastien!

He recommended Ave Damesnil around the Surcouf. There we found a concentration of small, somewhat dubious, electronics stores offering the same selection of electronics for sometimes hundreds of euros less! It felt like we hit the mother load. The stock was usually piled high against walls in unmarked cardboard boxes. The shop clerks all spoke French with thick Chinese accents- completely unintelligle and totally awesome! - no really.

We ended up purchasing an Acer netbook with Linux operating system from MicroWorld at 88 Ave Damesnil for 100 euros less than the Darty price.

It is a PC with an AZRTY keyboard but that is easily fixed by changing the language and adding a few stickers from BHV. It will work very well as a spare tire for now.

Everyone meet Baby!

This district was a real find and helped us feel like we are finally beginning to learn to navigate the needs of daily life in Paris. I pass the story on to you in case you are ever in Paris and in dire need of electronics equipment. You can't do better than this in this town.

Chennevierès-Sur-Marne

2009-02-18T14:20:00.000-08:00

Kevin and I are moving to the burbs (of Paris) aka Le Banlieue! Sébastien's grandparent's home in the 12th century village of, Chenevierès-Sur-Marne, is vacant. We can live there for less than 1/2 of our Paris rent and it has everything we need wifi, unlimited calls to the US, Mexico and 77 other countries (nobody knows which). Chenevierès is a town about 25 minutes by train and a 15 minute walk across the River Marne from Paris. Above is a modern street corner on the way to the house in the "new town center." The original town center dates from the 12th century and includes a church that now lies in ruin. I am so there! We had tea and sliced apples over conversation about what should be brought to the house to make us more comfortable. I couldn't think of anything other than maybe a good humored chemist with some equipment but unfortunately none was available. Ok, I will have to do without.

This is the view crossing the River Marne.

It wasn't so difficult to get there but we kept barely making it to the trains. The "the doors are about to shut on your neck" siren was going off each time and we ran and jumped and squeezed in without a second to spare. I was nervous because early last month I got caught and Kevin and two other guys had to pry the doors open for me to squeeze in just in time for the train to whisk off. It would have been a brutal and meaningless end to me otherwise. Reckless, I know but I was so excited and curious to see what Sébastien called his "ancestral home". The home belonged to his great grandfather and then grandfather then father and now to him and his twin sisters. I was told it had wild culinary herbs growing in the giant unkempt garden overlooking the village towards Paris and that on a clear day you can see the Eiffel Tower. Perfect!

Well, the years have not been kind to La Simplette (the home's name.)

These are the steps that led to the original building's entryway.

It was once grand I am sure.

Here is what is left of that original building now covered in tangled dried brush.

Sébastien mentioned in passing that his father had destroyed the original building to forget his childhood. We didn't pry. He later added as an aside that the neighbor had continued to take down the house to keep it from obstructing his view of Paris. The new house is considerably more humble but comfortable and I think we will like living there.

Voilà l'homme

2009-02-17T07:06:00.000-08:00

from a letter to Anjali...

I can see directly into the coiffure that faces the street. This evening I watched an almost completely bald man having what little hair he has left being washed. He seemed to be having such a sensual experience. I wonder if one of the ingredients of a truly great city isn't the possibility of sharing a stranger's innocent pleasure.

He comes to the coiffure regularly. He was the star of my day that day.

I couldn't help but take his picture today.

Radio France

2009-02-14T06:32:00.000-08:00

After a day of fretting about hydrogen - despite the golden glow of my lovely yellow flowers. I went out to a concert of electroacoustic music with Kevin at Radio France. This particular concert hall is significant because it is the location of some of the earliest experiments in sound spatialization and the use of speaker orchestras. The concert was interesting not so much because of the music but because it was packed on Valentine's Day evening. There were children, couples of every age and of course a lot of unescorted men. We met a gaggle of Argentinian composers and one Québécois, Martin, who said, "In school we were all forced to learn English and so my pleasure was to learn Spanish with the immigrant workers from Mexico." *love*

The conversation at drinks had one of those rare arcs of diversity that makes me more glad than usual to be a nerd.

Jungian archetypes

The possibility of discovering archetypes in musical instruments

The Police (band)

Bad 80's haircuts that make you feel so cool

Hélène Cixous

Writing with breast milk

Reading music which is impossible to write

An unnamed transsexual philosopher performer that collaborated with The Art of Noise

The fun of holding office hours in a leather bar

The french film Irreversible

The difference between a gay bar, a leather bar, an S&M leather bar, and a sex club.

The need to create a typology of such bars to allow for clear communication about where to hold office hours

The difficulty of composers collaborating with visual artists (especially video artists)

The possibility that in order for the collaboration to succeed each of the collaborators must fail just a little bit- thus making room for a third entity to develop

Fun.

St. Valentine's Day

2009-02-14T05:40:00.000-08:00

These are the flowers I got on Valentine's Day. I love them! In our neighborhood the flowers are sold in bouquets of 11. Apparently the number of flowers you get has as much significance as the color of the flower. OK then. So my 11 yellow roses mean:

A. I am the treasured one

and

B. Kevin has a good eye for color the yellow and the pink really work for me.

*Excellent*

They are sitting on my favorite chair. I found it in the street walking home from the metro a few days ago. It was just there, a perfectly good chair, one that had obviously served someone very well. I love the paint stains and the scratches on the surface of it, the width of the seat. Now this is a seat for an American butt. I am considering bringing it back with me since I am afraid the next tenant might put it back out on the street- poor thing.

Vernissage!

2009-02-13T06:51:00.000-08:00

Ozone Showroom

I was at the opening for Ozone's new collection last night. It was all style and finesse, champagne and low rhythmic drones from the hidden surround sound system and– a fog machine. This scene was something out of Zoolander. But seriously folks, the lights were minimal and elegant. According to Gilles, one of the designers, the swank studio is founded on a collective model where all partners ("invested to various degrees") participate in all aspects of the production. In general, however the physical forms are fabricated by others. The income is typically from private contracts. Everyone seemed to be doing quite well. We ended up here thanks to an invitation from new friends we met at the Obama inauguration viewing party at Harry's New York Bar. I was watching the black helicopter take Shrub away and I was overwhelmed by the pain of knowing he was going to Texas, my home state, where my mother is! Why there, why not Oklahoma!?!!? I turned around to the nearest stranger and said in all my exasperated English - "Too bad he's going to Texas" and he answered "Yeah too bad he isn't going straight to jail." So of course we were instant friends.

Lighting by Ozone

Afterwards, we went to dinner at Maria Lousia for delicious pizza with our Obama friends, Colin (artist) and Celine (philosopher of aesthetics). Collin and Celine are wonderful, intelligent, funny and warm people. Celine is understated but has an encyclopedic knowledge of art from a philosophical point of view. So as a kind of party trick I asked her for the single artwork I should see at the Louvre. She said without hesitation see the Raft of the Medusa by Théodore Géricault.

Then she said " I have to give you two." She added Raphael's portrait of Baldassare Castiglione.

I imagine she was allowing for a breadth of experience but I have no real idea why these two. I am sure it will be very, very interesting to stand before them each and consider why. She has published a paper about the horizon that I hope to link to soon. Also, and I am so sad I can't take the course but she will be teaching a course on the aesthetics of walking next year! Maybe there will be a reading list or algorithm or even just a whisper about the course that I can find out about. I will share of course.

The Bordeaux of Death

2009-02-09T04:01:00.000-08:00

Kevin and I are trying to learn something about wine. As some of you may know we prefer the independent study model and that of course ends up in a lot of disasterously naïve experimentation. Here is our horrific tale- well it's not so bad actually.

Kevin and I were out around early Sunday evening looking for wine to have with dinner. It's France and it's the 17eme and it's Sunday so the streets are nearly deserted. Only the Chinese eateries and a few tiny convenience stores, also run by Asian immigrants, are open. Every 10 minutes or so we would see others, usually 30 somethings (no god abiding elderly people) also combing the store fronts. They'd have our same crazed anxiety about them, that "I forgot to get wine for dinner look" in their eyes. We finally found a Russian grocery store that seemed popular because it was full of a healthy mix of shiny happy people. We crossed the street and went inside. The shop was surprisingly not smelly even though there were several buckets of whole fish on the shelves in the back. One bucket looked like giant sardines marinated in kim chi and another looked like giant sardines marinated in muddy water- no really. I would have taken pictures but the clerks didn't seem friendly. They had some wine, they had some white Bordeaux in fact– and it was 3 €. The price was right and why not? In the name of research we go forth! This is what I learned:

DO NOT DRINK THIS

Another clue perhaps?

Apparently, this alleged Bordeaux has done a lot of traveling. We suspect it might have been shipped from France to somewhere in Russia for labeling and then shipped back to France or something like that. I didn't think of it then – uhmm not so good. You see I have become a great fan of the Kir, my preferred version is the Kir Royale made with champagne but on a budget the Kir is a lovely alternative. A little white wine is all you need. So I thought this might be an interesting experiement. WRONG. The wine reminded me of what the combination of lime juice and Windex might taste like. Nevertheless, in the spirit of research, I added a little more crème de cassis.

Nope– that didn't work either. Yuk, it went into the sink. Beware all ye friends of mine!

Our French authority, Paris native (for many generations), Sébastien, taught us that quality wine should be produced and packaged in the same region so that, for example, a bottle of Bordeaux should be marked with the zip code of the Bordeaux region (a number beginning with 33).

Also, now I have to say that this wasn't actually such a good wine. It was very, very dry and had no flavor envelope even after breathing. Well maybe it just wasn't stored well or it was a bad year (2006). I would maybe try it again from another vendor if there was nothing else.

Furthermore, the top of the bottle (over the cork) should also be marked with the phrase récoltant meaning that the wine was bottled in the same place that it is grown. Aha! Hmmm... very sneaky you Russian faux Bordeaux peddlers!

By the way for all you that might have been wondering if that was Diego and Frieda with their little heads stuck together and pinned to the wall in the first picture of the Richelieu Bordeaux. Yes. That is the famous couple. The things you (I mean crazy me of course) bring to Paris!

Marche Bastille

2009-02-08T17:31:00.001-08:00

Totally awesome fish monger.

We finally made it to the Bastille market today. Our mission- to find a good wine IN A BOX. Apparently, there are some good producers of wine that choose box over bottle but no dice but we did find a little bit of everything else.

Desite the cold weather the market was swarmed with hungry irritable French people and all us other folks too.

I didn't take many more pictures because I was really busy shopping. This is a great market with the best prices so far and no end of choices. Next time I will bring an appetite because there is a lot of stuff to snack on. One thing though, the bread isn't the best. I will get my baguette at the boulangerie where it can be fresh and warm.

Il Neige à Paris

2009-02-07T06:32:00.000-08:00

It is snowing today- really snowing. But not like New England snow, I mean the flakes are fluffy and look more like crepe myrtle petals than anything else- seriously. Paris! This is the view from the window next to my desk. You can't see the snow- it must be because it is magic Paris snow.

Here is part of the view from my other window.

It's my neighbor's terrace. The snow isn't sticking at all.

So out doors will be cold and wet. I think I might try to

stay inside all day today as an experiment. It is very different

living in Paris rather than being a tourist in Paris. My priorities

are different. The monuments and markets don't have the same

appeal. More on this later.

La Mer à Boir

2009-02-06T15:56:00.000-08:00

Kevin got a hair cut today. Afterwards we would rendezvous at La Mer à Boir ...

After I was out alone for a day I should find him a new man. I did but he was camera shy. We'll have a look-see later...

I took some time to hunt for coffee and shower gel and almonds from the Indian grocer at Metro La Chappel. It was all great fun until I got off at the Pyrénéés metro to make my way to the La Mer à Boire. There were surprisingly many assorted groups of young French men hanging out in doorways on the street- never alone, always two or three or four. So many idle 20-30 somethings. They would dance out onto the sidewalk to greet me with a sly smile. "Bonjour" accompanied by the kind of look that brings out the "good Catholic girl" in me (what little is left of her). I retaliated by putting on my best American accent and shouting "I don't PARE-LAY FRAHN-SAY." Rico-suave instantly went sour and in the fall out off I went clickity-clack- clickity-clack up the cobble stone street. La Mer isn't the easiest place to find but when you get there you are really glad you did. They have 2.50 euro kirs, political art, and this is the view from the terrace.

It was lovely.

Also, I later consulted Sébastien (composer,

Paris authority, socialist and generally wonderful person),

and he said that the area is not known for prostitutes of any

gender. He said "They looked at you somewhere near wanting

to flirt with you and wanting to push you, no?" Yes! he must

know these guys.

The Stars and Bars

2009-02-05T14:16:00.002-08:00

I was walking tonight on rue Batignolles- looking for a baguette for dinner. All the boulangeries on my block were closed. Kevin was too exhausted to come with me. He had been carrying the groceries from all 5 stops. That's the way it's done here. I was stressing because our plan was chicken sandwiches. This is not as easy as it sounds. One needs condiments and fresh bread to go with the two day old chicken left overs or it will be bad- very bad. I decided to take my chances on the Blvd de Batignolles. Les Saveurs des Batignolles, 33Rue Turin, never disappoints. They are open late (8PM) and always make a fresh batch of bread for the tardy crowd. On my way there I passed a group of about 20 coeds in their late 50's. The men all had beards and longish thinning hair. Everyone was wearing black leather. The slender aging women looked pas mal in their leather pants. You go girls. The men all had large american eagle patches sewn onto the backs of their leather vests. There were about 12 gigantic Harley Davidson motorcycles parked in front of the Place de Richard Barret. Their riders were yelling loudly and playfully at each other in French- no accent. Then I saw it. A rebel flag on the back of one of the cycles. What. Seriously. You are French- or ostensibly so. Do you even know what this means? I was simultaneously horrified and fascinated. Was this a learning/teaching opportunity? I hadn't prepared a dialogue. What could I say- "Please, you must understand that this object is the symbol of racism, oppression, human breading for your god's sake, the bane of my country's soul." What could I say to make him take it down and put it in the trash can conveniently located just two feet away? Nothing. I walked up to the group intent on photographing the scene, a still warm baguette in hand. I would say something meaningful to them. I would have an image for examination in repose. I started to speak and then dropped my baguette. One of the bearded guys reached down and picked it up. "Oh just take off the end, it'll be fine." (en Français) -We met at bread- He seemed so kind. It wasn't enough but I didn't have the words to make the fine distinction between a minor kindness among strangers and deep kindness among persons. I didn't have the words to give what I should have. I went home ashamed.

The Best Thing EVER!

2009-02-04T08:34:00.000-08:00

I have had my eye on this stuff for days- two weeks actually!

Here it sits, the mystery confection, in the dainty window of Enfiniment Chocolat at 32-34 Rue des Moines.

Mmmm...I have the pleasure of oogling it nearly every day on the way to my favorite produce stand on Rue Des Moins.

The Produce Stand

This place has avocados in the dead of winter!

It's nougat!

This is the plum (mirabelle) flavor. Why is it yellow? I don't know. Was it delicious?

Oh yes!

Le Geant des Beaux-Arts & Père Lachaise Cemetery

2009-02-03T04:52:00.000-08:00

Charcoal

After my little "issue" at Berthelot I decided to try a regular person's art supply store and found a great one: Le Geant des Beaux-Artes. It is sort of an American shopping model. By that I mean that there is a wide variety of items under one roof- everything from clay to drafting supplies. This is especially good if you are browsing for materials that might work for an idea that is still developing in your head. The shop clerks were also very friendly which helps because art materials vocabulary is pretty specialized and, at least for me,

presents a struggle to communicate. For example "removable tape" is not actually "bande amovible" as all the translation dictionaries will tell you. It is actually "bande repositionable." This makes sense of course but when I asked for bande amovible I got a blank stare and it wasn't until several minutes later and a protracted interpretive dance that we got to what I actually needed "bande repositionable." Also, charcoal (for art purposes) is not really "charbon." This term might work if you have really patient people but the word is actually "fusain." Aha! In the end I got everything I needed for about 1/2 of what the watercolor paper alone would have cost me at Berthelot. Hurray!

So but here is the really magical thing. On our way there we realized that we were just across the street from Père Lachaise Cemetery, the largest cemetery in Paris and the final resting place of many of the great contributers to human culture. It was established in 1804 by Napoleon I and the graves of Oscar Wilde, Geroges Bizet, Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, Amedeo Modigliani, Marcel Proust, Jean-François Lyotard, Joseph Fourier, Edith Piaf, Paul Éluard--- K i have to stop but many, many interesting remains lie here. The cemetery itself is beautiful and feels ancient despite the numerous shiny granite graves dotted around seriously— like a sanctuary pulled from some gothic sprite's imagination.

Moss covered graves

stone steps to heaven

a boulevard for the dead

It's so Beautiful it hurts

2009-02-02T15:59:00.000-08:00

From a note to John Ewing

I had a really funny experience last night. It's funny because I can only laugh at myself. The other option is to cry for myself and that- is too much. I am here and struggling but I still have a little pride or whatever that thing that we invoke when feeling insecure and somehow still hopeful. I think I am loosing my mind. I decided I needed a piece of graphite to try out this one drawing idea that I was obsessing about after going to the Centre Pompidou. It's Paris and so the shops were about to close at 7 PM and there was only one place that supposedly had art supplies walking distance from our apartment. So Kevin and I dashed out the door and walked in the cold rainy night till we found this place. Berthelot, 184 Faubourg St-Honoré in the 8th. Agh! it was beautiful- set up to look like Picasso's atelier with tons of cute little bric a brac by anonymous makers all over the place. Old tin cans stuffed with paint stained brushes- a couple of dark wood easels and an old leather bag in which presumably the tubes of paint were carried into the field of sunflowers. I felt a stabbing pain in my side. I just wanted some graphite. The place was disgusting really because it was obviously not a place where you could buy art supplies. Everything except oil paint was hidden in this amazing wall-sized mahogany wooden manuscript drawer. My hands were frozen and so I couldn't even get the deep wooden drawers open to look though what was there. They stuck in an obstinate gesture towards me. I was dripping water all over the place-from my hair, from my coat. The shop keeper's accent was impossibly difficult to understand and to make things worse I forgot the ratings for the pencils. I must have seemed totally crazy. After struggling with the drawers and needing help just to open the pencil boxes, I finally decided I would take a 6b. I also needed some textured paper for the experiment. Our kind shop keeper was suspicious but helpful. The moment he handed me the tablet of water color paper I realized I hated this place and all places like it. I told him I just couldn't buy this stuff from him. I told him that he has a really nice shop but that there was something a little immoral about it. He smiled at me magnanimously either because he agreed with me or because he was then completely convinced that I was crazy and he wanted to express some kindness towards Kevin. Then we left, hurrying back home to make due with scotch tape, a 2b pencil and notebook paper. It didn't quite work- more on this later. I wonder if I am ODing on Paris. Could that be it?

I Love this Muck

2009-01-10T18:15:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure what this is. It is framed like a painting but it looks like random beautiful muck on the metro wall. Super-cool! Random beautiful muck!

Magré tout je t'aime

2009-01-09T15:44:00.000-08:00

Magré tout je t'aime - despite this I love you. That is the title of my blog. The myth of Paris- the city of love disappoints in January with a gray, cold and rainy reality. I don't care. I love it's filthy feces smeared streets. I love it's curt big city attitude. I love that women of any age wear their skirts unfathomably short- even in winter. I love that couples cling to each other even in crowds, even in the sardine can subways packed with bodies and overwhelming stench and in such a hurry too. I love its gorgeous architecture. I love its beautiful face despite so many brutal beatings over the centuries- every thing- and I don't know why. I just do.