Full Moon Metro Fiesta
Two Things:
1. After I got out of the Metro at my stop a young man mooned the platform as the train departed. Pink butt-cheeks pressed hard against the glass.
2. When I got home Dustin had prepared for me a surprise Mexican dinner - first taste of black beans, avocados, and bell peppers in over two months! Yay for great husbands.
I’m almost constantly amused by my life here.
i couldn’t take a picture of it, but wanted you to picture the effect of a metro moon so when i got home i drew a sketch of my memory (ignore my drawing skills).
Code Word: Tarantula
Working at Sergio Ostroverhy’s studio cum student/artist collective is, well, a series of alternately entertaining and frustrating vignettes.
I sit in the corner of Sergio’s studio, where he and his assistant/my friend Lili are working on a GIANT canvas covered in a grotesque image of Hilary Clinton staring longingly up toward some undefined yet most likely spiritual subject, and i work on compiling his dossier. Not the most interesting work, but it allows me to witness what Sergio refers to as the “Territoreality” from a somewhat distanced position. I get the amusement without the drama. Not to mention I watch the development of this amazing painting and take part in a very special, very small community of ex-pats.
Some days Sergio and Lili chain themselves together - literally a big gold chain attaches at the ankles - to force Sergio to focus on the painting when he’d rather procrastinate by “systematizing” various spaces, or practicing his “brain yoga,” or sharpening endless numbers of pencils. Today, however, he is distracted with some sort of technical wiring or computer installation - some sort of visit from a man Sergio describes as a genius software engineer/aquarium worker/wall-painter. So Lili and I are alone in the studio and intermittently having a 90s dance party (think Savage Garden and Salt-n-Pepa), while I look out for Sergio and shout “tarantula” when he rounds the corner. Not that we’re slacking, we’re just planning out our strategically silly play list to break up what is sometimes monotonous work: me with my dossier project, Lili with her line-tracing/gesso-ing/pencil sharpening.
Most every day at the Territory there is a new alteration to the space itself. Sergio is constantly re-”systematizing” (what Sergio describes as a step beyond mere organization - thankfully i haven’t had to take a crack at this) and re-defining spaces for different uses according to who’s doing what where. Earlier this week, Sergio decided that large swaths of bubble-wrap should be draped throughout the “summer kitchen” (another young artist’s eventual workspace) and in front of the window that my desk faces. However, immediately after the bubble-wrap was “stampled” into place over several doorways, Sergio smacked straight into one and with a face red from embarrassment yelled “ooh my gawt, you cannot valk in this fooking sheet!” (read Russian/French accent) - this is the outcome of most Territory re-visioning. Unexpected, potentially useful, and always amusing.
Le Carnet de Voyage Commence
I was at the Territory taking a smoking break (from the mind-numbing administrative project I’ve been working on), tapping my cigarette on the edge of a jar and smiling at the men working on the roof next door, when I picked up a random book someone had left out and opened it accidentally to a page discussing the “carnet de voyage.” The genre of the carnet de voyage was described as essentially a travel journal with images (drawings or photographs) as well as text. This journal might describe the surroundings one finds oneself in, one’s geographic journeying, but more importantly describes one’s personal reactions to these surroundings, one’s innermost thoughts. So more of a diary than a field study.
I’ve decided that perhaps it was a fate of sorts that led me to this unexpected page in a book that I opened out of boredom rather than interest and that perhaps, despite my reservations, I should transform this blog into something a bit more personal (or at least add a new category). I had initially conceived of my writing here as a sort of detached quasi-guide to living in Paris and its artistic offerings. But I’ve found that it’s nearly impossible for me to discuss my life here, to describe my daily experiences, without turning to describe my psychological processing of these experiences. Not to mention, it is boring for me to write in such a way that edits out self-reflection. So I’ve decided to insert this element into my writing here and move away from the mere punchy anecdotes I’ve so far attempted to deliver. So I think it’s necessary for me to conceive of my blog at least in part as a kind of carnet de voyage - if not to add dimension to my writing then to sort out my own collection of bottled thoughts.
So first off, my move to Paris is no simple relocation. It is not merely a series of bureaucratic and administrative steps to settling in a new place. This move is a personal redefinition - a complete revisioning of my life and my identity. It comes at a time when all familiar structures have fallen away of their own accord: my mother died, graduate school had ended, and my boyfriend (now my husband) has decided on settling permanently into what we initially thought would be a temporary relocation for his work. And in moving here, the familiar steps of beginning a career after graduate school are closed to me for lack of contacts and language skills. Things that I defined myself by two months ago (family, school, professional contacts and possibilities) are absent. I’m left completely to my own devices, free for the first time in my adult life to freely experiment with who or what I might be. This is both a fantastic gift and is completely terrifying. Because I also have no road map. It’s just me looking at Paris and wondering what it will take from me and what it will give to me. Well, it’s me and my man (my best friend, husband, muse) and our dance parties and our giggles and me looking at Paris.
La Premiere Vernissage
Last weekend I attended my first Parisian “vernissage” - that’s “art opening” to you! It was an exhibition of the street artists Obey and D-face at the Magda Danysz gallery. The works were largely screen prints and mixed media- really wonderful references to 1960s graphic design and poster art. Obey (Shepher Fairey) you might know from his ubiquitous “Andre the Giant has a posse” campaign. His work made far more of an impression on me than that of D-Face, whose work really seemed to lack substance beyond repackaging his renegade street cool into items available for individual sale.
At any rate, I was sent to this opening by Gogoparis.com - a bilingual online magazine listing Parisian cultural events and hangouts - who I have recently begun writing for. It’s unpaid (again with the unpaid work), and it’s just small exhibition reviews, but hopefully it’s good experience and good contacts and will lead to paid work in the future. Besides, it forces me to get out and see all the amazing art in this city! So if you have a second check out my first published reviews here:
http://www.gogoparis.com/paris/obey-d-face-3015
The Magda Danysz gallery, where this exhibition took place, is a really great space - narrow but with three floors and a distinctly Parisian vibe. Lots of exposed brick and iron spiral staircases. The crowd was, of course, impeccably stylish (save for a few British students) and downed complementary Campari cocktails with abandon as they casually (yet enthusiastically) perused the gallery’s display. I circulated through twice (honestly feeling a bit nervous) because i was so entertained by Shepherd Fairey’s playful prints. Beautiful and rich with social and cultural commentaries. I want one. But i think they may be out of my price range (ie. not free by any stretch of the imagination - oh mr. fairey, won’t you work on charity?).
Ole!
Last night Dustin and I met my French cousin, Stephane, for a Saturday night rendez-vous. The location was north-west of Paris at a concept restaurant called Ole Bodega! It features Spanish cuisine, salsa dancing, and also serves as a general dance club. Dustin describes it as the French version of a beer tent (and i haven’t yet told you all about our beer tent adventures in Germany, but that will come later). It seems to host only larger parties of 6 or more, but the atmosphere still felt surprisingly intimate. I think this is because it’s all located under a circus tent!
Driving up to this place you may think “where the hell am i and what have i gotten myself into” as it seems from the outside to be the secret citadel of French carnies, but upon entering it’s festive and lively! Festival lights are copiously strung throughout and the ceiling is painted with lovely stars. The tables are situated around a circus ring that promised to be filled with entertaining spectacles. After my cousin and his friends arrived and we had ordered drinks and appetizers (not the best Spanish food I’ve had, but passable in my opinion) an acrobat proceeded to climb a long swath of white fabric at the center of the tent. She swung precariously, wrapping herself in the fabric to the time of the music. While her feats of balance would not perhaps rival those of a cirque du soleil performer, her nipples did peek out over the top of her leotard, adding interest to the show. heh.
Following the performance the crowd began to enthusiastically dance and sing in the ring to the tune of the jackson five and “cotton-eyed joe” and various French hits that I was not familiar with. It was pure French hedonism and I loved it — not the refined and fashion-pregnant hedonism of Paris but the enthusiastic freedom of the non-Parisian in a circus tent. And I must say it was a nice break from the constant cool-contest of the city.
Here’s a pic from the website, not the best, but you get the idea:
A Visit to the Sous Prefecture
Many of you, particularly those closest to me, may be wondering what’s happening with my immigration status. Well, it took several months to get a visa from the U.S. in the first place and now that I’m here in France the process hasn’t become any easier.
Because dealing with the French bureaucracy is such a sticky undertaking, we decided to pony up and hire a relocation agent. This is someone whose job is to exclusively smooth the immigration process. Really, I think it is worth the investment - if only to have someone argue with the grouchy ladies behind plastic windows.
The sous prefecture is somewhat equivalent to a county office in America - it’s the place you go to deal with the official business of life: you apply for your driver’s license, apply for immigration status, apply for a passport if you’re French, apply for building/construction permits, maybe pay some housing taxes — i’m not sure exactly all that needs to be taken care of here, but the point is it’s a generally administrative building. I can guarantee that the majority of people at the Boulogne-Billancourt sous prefecture are there to apply for citizenship, visas, or carte de sejours (kind of like a green card).
The sous prefecture in my town, Boulogne-Billancourt, is a thoroughly unpleasant building: a huge concrete monstrosity left over from the 70s perhaps, looming like a huge nod to later construction behind the iron curtain. A long stone ramp leads up to the building from the street, like more ominous version of the yellow brick road, forcing you to hike up and crane your neck to see the building upon approach. In front of the building is what was once perhaps a pleasant garden, but now is only a skeleton of its former self - as if the administrative soul of the sous prefecture sucked all the life out of these sad plants. Several concrete benches surround an empty, scum-filled fountain, wild untrimmed bushes push against the open space, met by awkward planes of patchy grass. All of this is watched over by a skeletal tree naked of any leaves, its branches dramatically arched toward the ground as if it couldn’t bear the weight of merely existing in front of the sous prefecture, watching its sad visitors day after day.
And sad they are. No one wants to visit the sous prefecture. People line up in a circle around the building to wait for the doors to open. They are not waiting to be served, they are waiting to take a number. Then, you wait for that number to be called. This can take several hours. In our case, it took four. We camped with all the other poor souls attempting to take on the French system, i read, Dustin played his gameboy advance. The fluorescent light bored holes in our retina, bouncing off the all-concrete interior. You don’t get comfortable in the sous prefecture. The dilapidated green space in front of the building seems like a Garden of Eden after a few hours inside.
Finally, our number was called. We were told to come back in December. At lease the lady gave us an appointment. And I can’t leave the country because my visa is expiring before I get my carte de sejour in December. I got a piece of paper with a stamp on it that will let me out (or back in rather, if i leave) in case of emergency.
And that was it. Four hours of waiting to make an appointment for December. We left relieved, just happy to be done with this place. Free. If a bit battered.
This is taken from the Boulogne-Billancourt sous prefecture website. They’re trying to make it look like it’s not scary - but it is. Believe me.
dwarves and dragons and wizards - oh my!
True to our nerdy nature Dustin and I have spent the last several Sundays on a DnD campaign. You heard right - Dungeons and Dragons, that beloved table top classic from the 80s. Being that Dustin (my husband, if you don’t know) and his friends work for a video game company, playing a game without the presence of a glowing screen is somewhat novel.
Although I’m not as captivated by the standard role playing game (RPG) as my husband and his cohorts, I was interested to see exactly how the game is played and what it is that is so enthralling to those of the geek persuasion. Besides, Dustin was so cute preparing to serve as Dungeon Master (sort of the game’s controller/narrator/mediator) I couldn’t resist the opportunity to watch him in action.
In preparation for our first DnD adventure Dustin spent weeks reading rules, researching characters, and creating a world. He would lean over to me and ask things like, “hey babe? if you could choose between increased hit points for everyone in your campaign or increased damage against your foes which would you want?” heh. I giggle to myself and see a 12-year-old peeking out through my husband’s eyes.
So on the first Sunday we headed over to our friend Gandalf’s flat (yes, that’s his birth name). Early that morning Dustin had whirled around the apartment gathering maps and pamphlets and who knows what. I leaned over, eyeing the collection of papers in his hand. I asked, “What’s that?” He answered in all sincerity, “It’s today’s adventure.” I was utterly charmed.
Thus the first campaign commenced. I, a Dragonborn Paladin on a quest to prove my honor to my clan, was to serve as the team’s first line of defense. Our offense consists of two dwarves, a human, and a demon - all of whom covet and consume mass quantities of dwarven ale. As you may be able to tell, in playing Dungeons and Dragons we are essentially playing pretend and following a story roughly guided by my dear partner. So while other French families spend their Sunday afternoons preparing and consuming exquisite meals or taking in a nice film, we spend our leisure time munching pizza and fighting goblins. It’s the new (ex-pat) American Pastime.
<—-that’s me