Terrasse

Open Studios

This last weekend was the “Journees Portes Ouvertes des Ateliers d’Artistes” - two days of open artists’ studios in the 14th arrondissement of Paris (Montparnasse). So on Sunday afternoon I met Lili, another American girl who does some work in Sergio Ostroverhy’s studio (he has a small collection of us), for a stroll through the quarter and to take in some (hopefully) amazing local artwork.

Upon exiting the metro at Pernety station I was greeted with the slightly abrasive (yet nonetheless festive) tones of a tuba. As i waited for Lili to appear, a small brass band (daisies tucked neatly behind their ears) began to parade down the street. An audience formed a line behind them and I was reminded a bit of a pied-piper scenario - only instead of children or rats the band led groups of would-be bohemians to and from artists’ exhibitions.

Disappointing though most of the artwork was, wandering the twisted streets of Montparnasse and peeking into private gardens that would otherwise have been closed to us made up the difference. It was interesting also to see the sorts of spaces in which some artists worked and many of the exhibitions were even in artists’ private flats so I was able to satisfy my inner peeping-tom. In fact my favorite group of works was in one such flat. This small collection consisted of large printed canvases featuring bright colors in a sort of asian-inspired pucci print. Many of these canvases had trite asian references such as repeating buddha patterns, but those which refrained from using such tired iconographic references were little pucci-flavored celebrations of color.

Most of the other studios we visited were rather vanilla - many exhibiting photographs depicting urban change and over-priced homey vignettes of the 14th or expressionistic landscapes that would be right at home above the bed in a mid-priced hotel room. The proprietors of these exhibitions were generally well-kempt French ladies with pleasant smiles and a nice spread of snacks: hardly the young creatives Lili and I had hoped to meet. Instead, the characters we encountered were more creepy eccentrics than brainy bohemians. Walking into one teeny-tiny corner atelier we were met with bulging pale-blue eyes and a gurgling “bonjour” (imagine the sound a frog would make if his throat was flooded with saliva). Once we entered, a slight man surveilled us from the doorway (blocking our immediate exit) as we pretended to leaf through his artwork with interest, his two white whisps of remaining hair slightly bobbing in the breeze. His persona alone was not entirely disconcerting, but in combination with his artwork we were afraid for our personal safety. His closet-sized atelier was stuffed with several canvases and folder upon folder of drawings. Each work was a slight variation on the same image: hairless, white heads with beady eyes and faces otherwise devoid of expression. The canvases were all sort of white-on-white, while the drawings were in white chalk on black paper. Again, they were all the same round head, expressionless face, beady eyes, no hair. The image often repeated multiple times on one surface. At least 15 canvases and countless drawings. All nearly the same. All staring at you. In pain. We left as soon as was possible without provoking reaction from the nosferatu in the doorway.

Cleansing us of our chilling trip through the mind of one lonely man, we made our way through a sunny balloon-festooned street and found, once again, the brass band that had welcomed me from the metro. The day was perfectly autumn: sunny and warm, but with a bite to the air that promises winter’s swift arrival. Children were laughing and dancing to the band’s jaunty rendition of “Hava Nagila,” crepes were consumed up and down the sidewalk, and I fell a little bit more in love with this city.

The Paris Territory

So I mentioned in a previous post that I found some work at an artist’s studio. This studio space that I spend my time in is dubbed “the territory” and is the brainchild of a painter named Serge Ostroverhy (more on his work later). He essentially houses a labyrinthine concoction of artists’ roosts that the creative ex-pat can rent as a space for their work. There are painting studios, a photostudio, a writing lab, and so on. You’re probably picturing an attic studio with a wall of windows overlooking the Marais, but really this space is quite a bit more interesting than that. The territory rests behind a typical apartment block in paris, through a gate with a secret doorbell and a broken skateboard. To get back to the main studio one must pick their way along a narrow path lined with lonely canvases, empty blue jars, paint cans, ladders, chairs, brushes, mirrors, samovars and more broken skateboards. All of these seem not like piles of refuse or detritus, but rather like a collection of precious objects whose value has yet to be revealed by the magical mind of Sergio. And since my tenure here at the territory I have indeed seen many of these items put to use and transformed to create warm and unexpected spaces which light my imagination.

I think that’s the key to the territory – it feels like an imaginary space or like a space that is waiting to be defined by your imagination. To me it feels like an artistic pirate ship/Bedouin tent/granny’s attic/futuristic sci-fi hideout. To traverse the territory one climbs ladders, crosses many-leveled thresh holds, rings secret alarms, encounters w(e)ary creatives, reaches dead ends at locked doors, and stalks dark hallways. I’ve been inspired to create by the space itself, multi-faceted as it is.

Not to mention its part-time inhabitants: painters, writers, photographers, and philosophers (and me – not sure how to define – vigilant observer?). Many of these work for Sergio in exchange for studio space. Thus we’re all sort of grouped around him as he plans and executes his next project (again, I will address this in another post). He flits around from space to space, managing this territory that really functions as his cloaked business. He laughs a lot, hangs Russian icons all over, listens to music on repeat until he finishes a given task, and haggles over deals like any seasoned entrepreneur.

It’s a really exciting and dynamic space/community – I swear I can feel the air electric with plans and projects and I love this. It feels every day to me as if something’s about to begin. As if my life has taken me, not only to this amazing city, but has let me in on one of its most peculiar secrets . . .

The Metro - Informational Hub of Paris

So how does one find out what’s happening in this city? Are there publications at every cafe like the SN&R in good ol’ Sactown? No, but there are publications aplenty and you can pick up these gems daily on the Metro. However, the events they report are selective and paired with with district-specific publications that one might receive in the mail you’d be able to piece together a nice weekly itinerary. Still, these are not the sole means by which I compile a mental list of things to do. Instead, I rely on this most unexpected of mediums: the metro poster. The metro posters, framed as they are by a lovely tile border, are a font of information on happenings in and around Paris. (what’s more watching the posters be mounted is a spectacle in and of itself: the workers’ task seems a choreographed dance thick with glue, water, paper, and long brushes)

Here is a list of shows that I would like to see and which i initially learned of in the Metro:

-Jeff Koons in Versailles

-Klimt drawings at the Galerie Coatelem

-Ukiyo-e at Musee Cernuschi

-Georges Rouault at the Pinacotheque

to name a few. of course, the internet is also an excellent resource for happenings in and around Paris, but it’s not nearly is fun as poster-spotting in the metro.

Knuckle Bones

Today is a day that would have been my mother’s birthday, had she not passed this last January. I don’t really intend this aspect of my life to be a feature of this blog, and in fact today I inaugurate another blog entirely devoted that part of my life (memento.pyralis.net). However, in honoring her today I was led to find another corner of ordinary life in Paris that to me seemed somewhat extraordinary.

So, my father was Polish and I was raised with (loosely) Catholic traditions. I say “loosely” as my parents practiced what I term a kind of “edgar cayce catholocism,” meaning they combined Catholic practices with beliefs in reincarnation and myriad 60s era new-age beliefs. One of their strongest beliefs was in the power of prayer and a practice that I find still holds meaning and comfort for me in my adult life is that of lighting a candle before the statue of a given holy figure. While I personally may not entirely believe that this saint is going to answer my prayer, in lighting a candle and saying a prayer I am honoring my parents and their traditions while also providing myself with some modicum of comfort.

At any rate, this is one of the ways in which I chose to honor my mother this morning, so I sought out the church nearest my apartment in Boulogne-Billancourt. The church is only a few hundred years old and is a small, yet lovely stone cathedral with tall and slender lancet windows in the apse. There were only two statues at the base of which stood candelabras and candles available for purchase. The first, upon entering, was a standard likeness of what I believe was saint francis. I generally search for female saints or the virgin as their countenances i find more comforting, more motherly and therefore more approrpriate to the task at hand. So I ventured further into the church and found a great radiating chapel that held two large statues of the virgin. One statue was standing on a ship and was flanked by cheerful putti figures. This was the one under which I lit a candle. The other figure, on the opposite wall, was older but no less impressive. At the foot of this older statue was a small reliquary.

I suppose i’ve seen larger reliquaries throughout my collective travels, but those are usually metal cases and don’t openly display the relics they house. This one was built all of glass, laying bare a variety of bones to be openly appreciated. The bones were small so I’m assuming they were a variety of knuckle, hand and wrist bones. They were neatly arranged and rested on a bed of red velvet. Each one was adorned with a small gold ornament. I was surprised to find what to me seemed remarkable objects in the holdings of a small community parish. I felt at this moment that I was touching the arcane practices of medieval christendom.

I examined these bones with a mixture of curiosity and delight - wondering what (or who) exactly these were relics of. And thinking that it is both macabre and beautiful to worship remains thus. And i thought that these bones had become not only “holy” objects, but aesthetic objects as well. I left feeling fascinated and contented at my unexpected brush with strange residues of medieval visual culture actively incorporated into the very ordinary everyday.

A Week On The Couch

This is a post in remembrance of jet lag. ah yes, jet lag. after a flight from san francisco to paris with a stopover in Dublin this wicked air of fatigue trailed behind me like a piece of toilet paper stuck to my shoe. Fortunately, as i write this now, the unhappy jet lag that I experienced upon arrival is but a dim memory. I’m happy to report that my body is now fully adjusted, but in recounting to you my life in Paris thus far I cannot overlook the jet lag.

My husband claims that in order to curtail the lasting effects of jet lag one must immediately force oneself into a rigid workday schedule whether employed or not. I chose to do the opposite. Instead I settled into the habits of an ineffectual housewife — waking up to bid my man farewell in the morning and hopping directly back into bed only to wake up again after noon and proceed to read on the couch until, once again, dozing off into a late afternoon nap. Then, and this is the fun part of jet lag, I woke up in the early evening haunted by a heavy head and belly aches. My husband (Dustin) returned from work, the only activity on his mind being food, rest, and the occasional video game. While he settled down into a full night’s sleep, i held my lag-saddened tummy and quietly searched the paris craigslist into the wee hours, falling into light sleep at maybe 4 or 5 am only to start the whole cycle over again. It took some serious work to break this habit.

But I have to admit that indulging this jet lag-induced laziness was not without pleasure. My mid afternoon Parisian drowsiness was so contenting I felt that all I lacked were a few small children to feed me grapes and fan me with palm fronds. or pop down to the market to pick me up an orangina, a baguette and some soft goat cheese. at any rate, i could have used a few lackeys at hand.

okay, so as decadent as i’ve made this jet lag sound, my witching-hour craigslist searches did actually produce some results and I wound up getting in touch with an artist who was looking for a bit of help at his studio. See NY Times article here: http://www.nytimes.com/indexes/2008/05/18/style/t/index.html#pageName=18metcalfindex.html#pageName=18metcalf

He was offering to pay in trade for a studio accomodation, but as I have no use for this (and as my visa will not yet allow me to seek proper paid work) I essentially am working there on an internship basis watching, learning from this man who not only has incredible talent, but also has the strange ability to pull money out of nothing. I find his odd bohemian business acumen to be a totally fascinating and unexpectedly educational feature of this work. In addition to gleaning what i can from this non-job (at which my tasks are mainly administrative in nature at this point - compiling dossier, etc.) I am placed in a community of creative and intelligent ex-pats who were also seeking out like-minded folks in the middle of a new city.

With the beginning of this gig the week of lazy couch-sitting that my jet lag allowed came to an abrupt end. And while i am relieved to have interesting work to do in an amazing city that i love a bit more every time i venture through it, at times I conveniently forget the persistent headache that jet lag imparts and I do remember longingly my week of repose on the couch.

Slow to Act

It has been over one month since relocating and finally, as promised, i begin my blog. Having been here for a month already, I’ll have to necessarily back-track a bit, but bare with me and I’ll catch you all up.

Thus far my life in Paris has consisted of the following: learning to cautiously tread the infamously poop-riddled sidewalks, improving my French comprehension by watching dubbed American movies and television shows (think Highlander the series and Escape from New York), finding a way to structure my days and avoid producing gaping holes in my resume, settling in to a little flat with my husband, sitting at the sous-prefecture, and finally just breathing in the sheer aesthetic pleasure offered by this city.

My life has also consisted of intermittent travel - exclusively to Germany as it works out. So there has also been much beer, long train rides, and maultaschen (more on these adventures later).

What i haven’t had enough of, and what promises to be a focal point of my life here, are the art exhibits. It seems there are new exhibits, and amazing exhibits, constantly on offer. I’d like to consume them all and share with you what I find. For example, the Chateau at Versailles is hosting a sort of Jeff Koons retrospective (see jeffkoonsversailles.com) and i could not imagine a more appropriate or interesting venue for such an exhibition. For an artist who plays unendingly with themes of excess and material culture to be shown in a site that is the very embodiment - indeed a monument to - excess is entirely perfect. Beyond this, the contrast between Koons’ playfulness and the intimidating opulence of the palace promises to add another (amusing) element to his work and to the show. I think bringing Koons’ work to Versailles re-energizes both the artist’s work and the site itself. At any rate, I’ll let you know how it actually plays out once I have a chance to visit (the show goes until December).

This is it for an introduction - I will begin tomorrow to detail the events of the past month. Thank you for reading!