Mark K October 30th, 2008
“Working before a soul-stirring landscape, all I thought of was making my colors sing, without paying heed to rules and regulations.” – Henri Matisse
Today, you can visit the small village of Collioure on the Mediterranean coast of France and see how Matisse and his friend Andre Derain interpreted the inspiring landscapes that they encountered.
Mark K October 27th, 2008
I went for a walk on my first morning in Limoux, looking for the train station and a good cup of coffee. I came upon this wall, covered with peeling posters and wondered what it was all about.
It looked political, judging by all the French flags, and I recognized the date 1960 and the name of the town – Limoux. I saw something about Gaul or Gaulist and a drawing I couldn’t quite recognize. I had the feeling that it was expressing a nationalist – France should only be for the French – sentiment, but I can’t really tell you why.
Later, I looked I did some research on the Internet and asked my friend who lives here part of the year if she knew what it was about.
Then it occurred that unsolved mysteries are one of my favorite things about traveling. There are people who insist of explaining everything to you, as if their interpretation is the only one possible, analyzing everything with a rational mind, as if feelings, intuitions, fancy and metaphor have nothing to do with the traveling experience.
I was tempted to try to find the answer, but I think I’ll just notice something that caught my eye and speculate about what it might mean to me.
Mark K October 25th, 2008
By chance, Chuck Yeager happened to be staying in our hotel in Toulouse. He was in town as a guest of Airbus, the huge European aircraft manufacturer, which is located in Toulouse. Yeager is famous as a fighter pilot in World War II and as a pre-NASA test pilot, who was the first person to break the sound barrier. I asked him if he still flies and he said that as a matter of fact he had flown one of the largest Airbus jumbo jets just the day before. During World War II, he had been shot down nearby and had been rescued by the French resistance. They helped him make his way to Spain, where he was turned over to the Spanish. Later, he told me, he was traded to the Americans for some gasoline. During his flight with Airbus, he was able to view the area where he had parachuted after being shot down in 1944. I asked him if he had regretted not being part of the NASA space program. He said, no, that being a NASA astronaut was not really being a pilot and that it was a program filled with government bureaucracy – something that he wanted no part of. He was wearing a bright orange cap which, he explained to his interpreter, came in handy during hunting season back home.
Mark K October 24th, 2008
The D’orsay museum was built inside what used to be a Paris train station and is itself a stunning structure, even aside from the art inside. The vertical space is enormous and the arched ceiling with panes of glass supported by iron, allows an ethereal light to fill the space.
I came early and made my way to the stairs at the back that lead to the Impressionist collections on the top floor. The clerks at the gift shop were still arranging their goods on display and the galleries were empty except for the docents and guards.
I had walked through the rain on the way to the museum and my shoes had that kind of crepe sole that, after they have been wet, makes a squeaking sound when you walk. I squeaked my way around the galleries, trying different gaits in an effort to lesson the noise.
I recognized many of the paintings by Degas, Monet, and Renoir. I couldn’t believe that I could walk right up to the, only separated by a thin wire. It’s hard to slow down and enjoy the paintings – to not rely on a guidebook or to only appreciate those that are more well-known.
It’s like a cartoon I had once seen about wine tasting. A man sips a glass of wine, makes a face and announces that this wine is “so-so”. He’s then told that experts have given this wine a rating of 95 points. “I’ll have three cases!” he says.
I find a painting that I have never seen before and take a picture of it. I decide that this is one I like on its own merit – the bonfire in the pasture was almost burning a hole through the canvas.
Downstairs, you can see paintings done by the artists that preceded the Impressionists in the mid 19th century. They had learned to depict scenes with great realism and copied poses used by the Greeks and Romans. The Impressionists had decided to add the dimension of feeling to their paintings – to exaggerate colors, the play of light, the blurring of movement and emotion. They left the studio and captured real life and stopped it in time.
I marveled how in a few short decades, artists pushed the limits of what could be depicted on canvas. Soon Monet, Manet and Renoir would be followed by Van Gough, who painted with extra-vivid colors so that they would still be bright even when they faded with time and still later by the Fauvists, who were accused of painting what looked like “fauvres” or wild beasts.
Doesn’t a writer really have the same task as a painter? Not just to establish a record of exactly what is seen and heard, but to give a personal impression of the scene? But it’s really harder than that – it’s about telling something about yourself and your point of view, but at the same time evoking something universal, something more powerful, something personal for the reader.
It was interesting to see how each artist responded to that and wrestled with the notion of being accepted, finding fame, or pushing the boundaries of what an artist can accomplish.
By now the galleries were starting to fill with other visitors. I decided to head downstairs to see the more traditional paintings and to let the crowd noise cover the sounds of my noisy footsteps.
Mark K October 23rd, 2008
Wow! Paris! I love being here. It was great! I love the architecture here. I got a very pretty bracelet and necklace. The Eiffel Tower was huge! I liked the artist in front of the Louvre on Pont des Arts bridge. My favorite thing here though was the spray paint artist. OMG!! It was awesome! I’ve never seen such amazing art before! I can’t wait until I come back in July. Then I can go to the Pantheon and the Catacombs. I really want to see those two things really bad! There is only one downside here. TOO MUCH BEAUTIFUL JEWELRY and so little money. Oh, and I like the cobblestones! Everytime I walked, my feet got a massage! I can’t wait until July! - Nicole, age 13
Mark K October 22nd, 2008
I had never really been drawn before to go the top of the Eiffel Tower. Maybe it was because of my fear of heights, maybe because it was thronged with tourists, or perhaps just not wanting to pay the steep admission price. Not long before I came here, my writer friend Carolyn read an intriguing story she had written about her visit to Paris as a college student. She talked about how she boldly started up the stairs instead of taking the elevator, but part way up started to have strange thoughts about how there was nothing to keep her from climbing the railing and jumping, if she so chose. That story made me curious about how I would react to my fear of heights. I arrived early and was one of the first people in line. I debated about whether to take the elevator or stairs and decided that I would take the elevator up and if I had the courage, would take the stairs on the way down. I figured that if my fear got the best of me, I could always take the elevator down. The elevator travels up on of the piers at an angle until it reaches the first level, at 200 feet, then continues to another platform at 400 feet. I was amazed how high it was and was already feeling nervous – I knew I wasn’t even half way to the top. From there, you only have one choice – the elevator. You transfer to a smallish elevator that goes straight up through the narrowing tower. This was the part I wasn’t prepared for. Suddenly, you’re not surrounded by layers and girders – there’s very little separating you from thin air – and once the elevator starts up, you’re committed – no turning back now. There’s a little window in the ceiling and you can see just how very, very far you still have to go!I reached the top and the safety of a glassed in observation deck. For some reason, I don’t really mind heights when there are windows – ones that can’t be opened. There’s another level just above, that has a wire mesh instead of windows. This was a challenge, and it took me a couple of tries until I could walk around and have my picture taken.The way down isn’t nearly as bad as the ground gets closer and closer. The second level, where I had to decide whether to take the stairs, seemed pretty tame by now – I decided to give it a try. The stairs seemed safe – they’re surrounded by girders and have a high fence, sometimes you’re totally enclosed with mesh over the top as well – you’d really have to work at falling off. I was enjoying myself, taking my time. That is, until I reached these guys on the first level. There was a giant crane reaching from the ground to the first level and workers were assembling what looked to be the supports for a construction elevator. The crane would lift a piece into place and these three maniacs, perched on the edge of nothingness at the top, would bolt it into place. Then they would climb to the top of that section and repeat the process. I could stand next to them, not five feet away, safely on my side of the fence and take their pictures.There’s something interesting about my fear of heights. Often, when I’m perched on the top of a tall building or bridge, there’s someone braver (almost anyone else in the world) next to me who wanders over casually to the ledge and leans over as if they’re gazing off their porch back home. This scares me almost as much as if I were the one doing the leaning and gazing and I usually get a visceral pang in my stomach just about this time. I’ve seen pictures of a guy who, many years ago, dressed up in a costume that could only be described as an imitation of a flying squirrel – he was a tailor as I recall – and decided that he would try to fly from the top of the Eiffel tower. Of course, things didn’t work out too well for him and when they did the autopsy they found that he had actually died of a heart attack before he hit the ground. Now, that would be me – the heart attack part, not the “how can I use my tailoring skills in a more creative way” part. I’ve got to admire the guy, for trying to face his fears. Just the same, I think I’ll stick with the stairs.
Mark K October 21st, 2008
I was walking down a street in Paris – I just had to find a certain hotel where a famous writer had spent his last days, when I heard someone calling out a sound I didn’t recognize – O bam AH! O bam AH! Finally, I realized that someone was talking to me. There were three African immigrants on the street corner, and one of them had seen the Obama button attached to my shirt. He asked me if I was American, and did I think Obama would win the upcoming election. I answered that yes, and yes, I hope Obama will win. He asked if I was interested in some pieces of African art and I declined and then he asked if he could have my Obama button. I liked the idea of him wearing the button long after I had returned home and he was proud as he showed it to his friends. I sense that the French would very much like Obama to win and that it would do great things for the relations between our countries. Before I came here, a friend of mine back in the states had told me that she had volunteered to help people complete their early voting ballots. When an elderly African American man had completed his ballot, he asked my friend if he could make a photocopy of it before he sent it in. He was old enough to have experienced the country before the civil rights movement wanted to have a keepsake of this history-making election if Obama were to win. I asked my new friend if I could take his picture so I could remember this moment as well.
Mark K October 21st, 2008
When I visited Paris in my college days, I asked my friend where I should stay. He recommended the Hotel Paradis on a hill overlooking central Paris, just down from Montmartre. I wanted to tour Montmartre, made famous by artists of years back, like Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gough and Picasso and thought I’d try to find the Hotel Paradis while I was in the neighborhood.The Metro train didn’t seem to climb as it headed to the hilly neighborhood of Abbesses, so as a result you’re far underground when you enter the station. I climbed several flights and passed the cool Art Nouveau entrance, looking for the park that I remembered being right next to the hotel. It was raining and their were lots of leaves on the ground. I could hear the sound of someone sweeping and wondered if they still used the old-fashioned brooms that were made of a bundle of twigs from a tree. I hoped the sweeper thought I was taking a picture of the mural behind him.I stopped at the bakery next door for a coffee and croissant. Nobody remembered the Hotel Paradis, but they were friendly the neighborhood had a great feel. This is Amelie’s neighborhood – the working title for the movie was Amelie of Abbessee, rather than Amelie of Montmartre. It feels like a village, but is bustling and friendly and hip and not too overrun with tourists. When I ordered my cafe creme, the waitress asked if I wanted a glass or a “bol”. I assumed that “bol” meant a large cup, but when it arrived it was actually a serious cereal-eating sized bowl filled with delicious coffee and steamed milk.I hadn’t found paradise, but this was pretty close.
Mark K October 20th, 2008
The largest flea market in Paris is actually located in St. Ouen, just outside of the Paris city limits. It’s more of a series of markets, located in permanent stalls and shops that wind through tiny lanes or within arcade-like buildings. You can find everything from expensive antiques – paintings, furniture, a marble fireplace to fun junk – postcards, beads, pens, Paris street signs, one of those ancient bicycles with a huge wheel in front and a tiny one in back. You wander down the lanes, letting your eyes guide you to the next enticing item.Between the Metro station and the flea market are hundreds of gypsy-like temporary stands selling t-shirts, tennis shoes, leather jackets, suitcases – the same kind of low quality mass produced junk you find in an American flea market. The neighborhood is on the gritty side and the vendors seem to be more recent immigrants than their more well established neighbors in the permanent markets. Music is booming and stands sell crepes and kabobs.As I was making my way through the crowd, a young man on a motorcycle was threading his way through the pedestrians as he passed me going the other way. It’s common to see people riding motorcycles on sidewalk here – he would gun the cycle a bit and move forward a few feet, dodge some people and then do it again. He had a cardboard package on the rack on the back of his bike, held in place by some elastic cords. As he passed a stall selling sports clothing, a young vendor reached out and neatly grabbed the package, grinning to nearby friends, who were in on the joke. The motorcyclist continued to his stall around the corner, oblivious to what had happened.I couldn’t tell if it was a practical joke among vendors who knew one another, or a theft. As he parked his bike, the rider discovered that the package was missing and looked around him – telling his friend what had happened. I was feeling vulnerable, with the thief and his friends only a few yards away, but caught the attention of the victim and, with my back to the others, motioned that his package was around the corner. He walked back and started to ask questions, but no one would let on what had become of the package, which by now had been stashed in the back of one of the stalls.I kept walking toward the Metro stop, looking around me to find out how things were turning out. Motorcycle man was walking in circles, moving in the same direction, but getting farther and farther from his package. When we saw each other, I described to him the clothing of the man who had his package and told him where he worked. It’s always difficult to know how to handle a situation like this, and dealing with an unfamiliar culture and language makes it that much harder.It was looking less and less like a practical joke, but my better judgment told me that I shouldn’t get any more involved. He thanked me and headed back into the crowd, while I made my way to the Metro station.
Mark K September 9th, 2008
My daughter recently started her sophomore year of high school and came home complaining about a situation that had arisen at her school. During the summer before her freshman year, the school had completed an extensive building project and among the additions was a brand new state-of-the art library. The students loved the new library and began to gather there as a social meeting place at lunchtime, during breaks and after school. The librarian and administration soon found that, with all of the socializing, the noise level was too high for those who intended to study.
The administration tried various solutions: asking students to be quiet, evicting offenders, and designating one room as the “quiet study” area. The students countered that they had been promised a student center and since it had not yet been provided, it should be acceptable to use the library for socializing. The administration felt that after spending a small fortune on the new library, those who actually wanted to study shouldn’t have to be confined to a separate room. By the end of last year, no solution had been found.
This year, the administration decided to try a different strategy; that’s when they purchased “Ma’at”.
What, exactly, is Ma’at? Ma’at is an electronic noise sensing device which lets you know when the noise in the room has passed a certain level. The librarian can set the level and if the ambient noise is below that level, Ma’at displays a green light. When the noise level approaches the set limit, the green light changes to yellow, as a warning. When the noise level surpasses the acceptable level, Ma’at displays a red light and everyone is kicked out of the library!
My daughter explained (with much rolling of eyes) that it’s called Ma’at because it’s named after the Egyptian god of balance. It seems that Ma’ats duties included setting order in the universe out of the chaos of creation.
My daughter complained that when she studies in the library, she has trouble concentrating – not, mind you, because of all of the chattering – but because she has to keep one eye on Ma’at at all times as the light switches back and forth from green to yellow, and eventually to red. She says that Ma’at is programmed to average the noise level every ten seconds, but that if a student is sitting close to the sensor and coughs at an inopportune time, this is enough to make Ma’at see red. Worse, she was convinced that the librarian was setting Ma’at at a lower noise threshold each day. What, she asked, will happen when cold season sets in?
The school is known for encouraging students to think for themselves, to question, and to speak up. Not surprisingly, many of them refused to give up without a fight.
A group of students banned together and started a counter-Ma’at insurgency, taking their case to Facebook and encouraging others to join their cause. My daughter read to me the impassioned statement written by the leader. I was impressed with how well written it was. It was stated that the installation of Ma’at smacked of Big Brother and that the students were being deprived of their right to meet and socialize and that the administration had renegged on their promise to provide a student center. It was further suggested that the school culture was slowly but surely changing – it was becoming more rigorously academic, pressure-filled and rule-oriented and less open-minded, student-centered and creative. A new head of school had recently been hired and it was feared that this was just the beginning of more changes to come. The author – who boldly identified himself – encouraged others to leave their opinions and to join him in an act of civil disobedience in protest to Ma’at.
The idea was that every day, the students would purposely cause Ma’at to flash the red light. Every day everyone would be asked to leave the library and no one would be able to use this brand-new, gorgeous facility. They would make a mockery of Ma’at to the point where the administration would have to rethink their policy and return, it is presumed, to old-fashioned shushing.
I was intrigued by the whole story and was especially tickled when I found out if the device had a name. I asked some questions that only served to further aggravate my daughter (Do they sell a home model?) and felt sympathy for the new head of school who might be facing a precedent-setting test case early in her administration.
I offered to enter my opinions on Facebook, but my daughter informed me that the cause of exercising one’s freedom of speech didn’t extend to meddlesome, embarrassing, ill-advised parents. I’m hoping that I have accurately represented the opposition’s message, since I have been further advised that “it would be really weird” for anyone my age to have anything to do with Facebook.
Meanwhile, Ma’at sits on the library wall passing judgment, unaware that she might have created more noise than silence.
