Avec le petit ami

The cutest thing carved in marble you will ever see.

Coming back onto the grid after a two-week sojourn while the boy visited.  We had a lovely time, though now the transition back to work and solitude after two weeks of fun and companionship is a bit tough.  Not, however, that it was all fun and games while he was here.  Our Parisian wanderings took into account various public sculptures--both by Dalou and others--that I need to see while I'm here.   As it turned out, we maxed out early, because on our first night's walk, to the Eiffel Tower, by way of the Tuileries, we saw easily the best public sculpture ever.  Ok, probably not the best, technically, but I do love this thing.  Gabriel Pech's Monument to Perrault ranked high on my list of most-anticipated sculptures in Paris less because of its relevance to my work (though it actually is, promise) but mostly because it is so damn cute.  Charles Perrault wrote, among other things, the story of Puss in Boots, so his monument in the children's park of the Tuileries features--yes--a cat wearing boots.  I spent no little amount of time pointing out to Jay the most salient features of the monument, which include:  fabulous knee-high boots, hat with a giant feather, billowing cape, a mouse hanging from his belt, and a necklace made of mice.  Sadly, after this, monuments of 19th-century men without a tail, whiskers, or a mice-necklace are going to look fairly prosaic.  One possible exception is Dalou's Triumph of the Republic, which I like to think can be impressive without a cat wearing boots, especially because it does feature two absolutely enormous lions instead.

Boots don't come in their size.

There are a number of benefits to studying public sculpture, not the least of which is that when your boyfriend comes to visit, you can wander around Paris still looking at things, rather than being locked up in a library.  The other advantage, of course, is that public sculpture is climbable.  Jay's presence was fortuitous for this photo, as not only did I need someone to take the picture for me, but I also needed the assurance of having someone to fall on in case I misstepped while clamoring up on top of the lion.

This way to the bog!

After looking at piles of sculpture in Paris, we then went to the land of bad art:  the British Isles.  Studying French art, I have inherited a number of prejudices about the English--namely about the quality of their art and their food.  Despite both of these prejudices playing out to some extent, we had a lovely time--especially because we were mostly in Wales--thereby bypassing the English and their bad art.  Or at least, I had a lovely time--Jay ran through fields of sheep, snorkled in a bog, and biked up and down Welsh mountains.  During this time, I drank tea. 

I also kept an eye out for lambs nursing.  Yes.  You read that right.  Lambs nursing.  I promise you that this is, in fact, the cutest thing you will ever see.  If you take a carved marble Puss in Boots, put it in a cute-ometer, amplify its cuteness by 10000000x, have Anne bloody Geddes photograph it with some babies dressed as flowers and vegetables, and then put on your cute glasses to look at it, you might come close to the cuteness of lambs nursing.  I am actually not one to be swayed by cuteness (except in marble), but damn if lambs nursing didn't make me squeal with joy.  They actually spin their tails with glee.  They SPIN THEIR TAILS.  Seriously.    

The English are coming!!  With bad art!!

When Jay was not jogging, bogging, or biking, he was defending us from the English.  A trip to Powys Castle in Welshpool proved neither dank, dark, drafty, or castle-y enough, so we took a trip to Cardiff Castle, which did indeed turn out to be quite castle-y.  Whereas Powys Castle had Romney portraits, Baroque gardens, and other renovations purposely intended to reduce its castle-y parts, Cardiff Castle had crenelations, a trebuchet, and children practicing archery skills in the banquet hall.  Much better.  In Cardiff, we also sampled a Welsh breakfast.  This consists of many types of meat, boiled seaweed, egg, toast, brown sauce, and something deceptively called "black pudding."  While the "black" should have been an important hint, it is very deceptive to call anything pudding that has, as one of its primary ingredients, blood.  That is screwed up.  Should anyone ever give you black pudding, my advice to you is to cover it in brown sauce and not ask questions.  Later in the day, I gorged myself on sticky toffee pudding covered with English custard in order to compensate for starting my day with eating blood.  As I learned the hard way, custard-covered sticky toffee pudding is quite delicious, but incredibly bad pre-panicked-run-for-the-train food.

We did catch our train, and celebrated our return to Paris by experiencing a number of Paris' most revered cultural institutions:  the Jardin du Luxembourg, Notre Dame, Sainte-Chapelle, Sacre Coeur, the Louvre, and the cheese-covered hot dog.  While including the cheese-covered hot dog on this list might appear as if I am being purposely comedic--don't be fooled.  The French hot dog is covered with a truly monumental amount of cheese. 

Le hot dog fromage.

Despite the fact that (or more likely because) I am a trained professional, my personalized tour of the Louvre consisted less of art historical interpretations, and more of subjective judgements and random facts.  For example, I derive great glee out of pointing out the back of Delacroix's famously lustrous head of hair in Géricault's Raft of the Medusa.

Me and Delacroix rocking our hair.  Please note my Morgana-inspired ponytail.

In fact, I was so excited that I almost threw myself at the painting, which no doubt would have prompted a lifelong ban from all Parisian museums.

Ne touchez pas!!

Jay, to his credit, was able to withstand a whole trip to the most famous museum in the world with his art historian girlfriend.  For that, he deserves to be applauded.  Or better yet, get a high five.

"Nice job on the bog snorkle, dude. "

That would have been a great ending shot, but I did spend several days in the Welsh countryside, so . . . Mom, this is for you.

Flowers with magnificent backdrop of lush Welsh landscape.  Cheers.

Pompi-doh

I struggle with contemporary art.  I have a certain sympathy for folks who roll their eyes and ask what the hell it all means, because despite being a couple hundred of pages away from a dissertation in art history, I sometimes find myself wondering the same thing.  I've taken classes, I've read the books, and sure, I more or less get it, but when it comes down to it, it just doesn't quite do it for me.  I'm sorry Contemporary Art--it's not you, it's me.

I often go to contemporary art museums with this expression.

The most infamous example of my distaste occurred a couple of years ago when Jackie, Becca, Brady and I went to New York to visit my college friend Josephine, and hang out in the city.  On the day of the even more infamous puking incident, Bec and I decided to go to the Guggenheim while Brady stayed at my friend's apartment to empty his stomach of all its contents.  To my surprise, Matthew Barney's Cremaster cycle had completely overtaken the museum.  Becca says that she has never seen me fly through a museum with such rapidity and distaste.  I vaguely remember a river of warm vaseline, and the rest, thankfully has been more or less stricken from my memory.  I still don't know who had the most appalling day:  me or Brady.

Raymond Duchamp-Villon, Le Chat.

This is all back story for today's museum trip to the Centre Pompidou, home to the largest modern art collection in Europe.  Many Parisian museums are free the first Sunday of the month, so I chose the Pompidou, as it is on the art historical to do list, and I did not think the crowds would enrage me as they would if I went to the d'Orsay.  While I did not wander the Pompidou with distaste, I admit I walked through it with a certain disinterest and subsequent speed.  Picasso?  Seen it!  Moving on.  My favorite piece of the day was probably a charming little relief by Raymond Duchamp-Villon, Marcel Duchamp's less famous brother, whom I have a lot of fondness for.  His early death, of typhoid fever in WWI, precluded him from having a large body of work, so I'm always pleased to come across his stuff.

Brancusi Atelier.

I very much enjoyed the recreation of Constantin Brancusi's atelier (studio), which is located in a small structure outside the Pompidou itself.  The early 20th-century sculptor had a certain mania for how his works should be displayed, so he bequeathed the works in his studio to France, on the condition that they redisplay them in the manner in which he left them.

The famous escalator runs up the side of the building in a zigzagging glass tube.

Easily the best part of today's visit, however, was riding the escalator up the side of the building.  As you ascend upwards, your vision is occluded by the height of the surrounding buildings, until you move past the fifth floor and the Parisian cityscape emerges.  This proved so fun actually, that I spent the majority of my visit not looking at art, but rather riding the elevator up and down.

Rare photo of me courtesy of fellow tourist.

Did you just call it the Con?

Dude--I went to the Con.  The Comic-Con that is.

Comic-Con Paris: L'évènement Geek de l'année.

For the record, I went because my sisters insisted--Nicole outright threatened to disown me if I didn't go.  Off the record--ok, it's the Comic-Con, it's in Paris, there were still tickets . . . . why not?  I've been overdosing on high art since I got here, so why not some art of a different color?  Had there been a 19th-century Comic-Con, I am certain Gustave Courbet would have been there, and he would have been dressed as a Jedi.  Now I am wishing this was the case, so that way we could have the self-portrait "Courbet as Jedi" hanging at the d'Orsay (would that I had the PhotoShop skills...).

I don't often take the Metro, so when I do, I double and triple check to make sure that I am hopping on the train heading in the right direction.  This morning, there was no need, as I was sure that the train at the platform populated by people brandishing swords, shields, wigs, and mushroom hats was going my way.  After a near-getting-crushed-and/or-trampled incident, I ended up standing in the packed train next to a furtive, antsy little dude who jumped up from his seat at every stop, as if he was about to get off.  As I hovered vulture-like over his seat, I grew to hate him with an unrelenting, unmitigated fury.  He got off at the Con.  Dude--when the train empties and all the guys wielding katanas get off--you know it's your stop.  Chill.

One of many queues.

 
There is a lot of waiting in lines at the Con.  People wait to buy tickets, they wait to get into the building, they wait again to get further into the building, they wait to for the chance to find out if they can wait again to get autographs, they wait for food, for the bathrooms, to play games, to take pictures, etc. etc. etc.  As I was waiting to find out that I would not be able to wait again for some autographs (le sigh),  I passed the time by checking out what constitutes much of the enjoyment of the Con--the attendees themselves who take the idea of "dressing for the occasion" to spectacular levels.  I felt a bit out of place, actually, as I came to Paris unprepared to dress for the Con.  I should have, at least, put on some cat ears.  As it turns out, girls can wear cat ears with anything and it constitutes dressing up.  I am now convinced that one should always travel with cat ears lest you unsuspectingly have a Con to attend.  Do I have my passport?  Check.  Contact lenses?  Check.  Cat ears?  Check.  Allons-y!

Reno!!  From FF7!!!!!!!

Nicole pointed out that the Con represented the perfect situation to dress as Quistis Trepe.  I must admit I was a bit disappointed to let the opportunity pass me by, as I bear more than a passing resemblance to the Final Fantasy VIII character.  Quistis is the perfect choice, because not only is she my digital doppelganger (digiganger? no? ok.), but she also represents my only plausible connection to the world of the Con--Final Fantasy.  I sufficiently geeked out at the Square Enix booth, and was (almost) tempted to leave my queue so I could grab a picture of the guy on the right.  That's all the cred I got.

Square Enix was technically not located at the Con, but rather at the Japan Expo.  While Comic-Con Paris is only in its third year, the Japan Expo has a longer history--reflecting, it seems, a more entrenched French affection for manga and anime.  Wandering seamlessly between the two areas meant that I could barely differentiate from the two.   Brighter colors and absolutely no elbow room signified the Japan Expo, whereas slightly more elbow room and a preponderance of Jedi meant you were back at the Con.   I was always happy to see the Jedi--my lack of current pop culture means that I was most excited for the old favorites.
 

Of course there is still sculpture in this post.

The Legend of Zelda, for example, turns 25 this year (!), so the Con had a great little exhibit celebrating every incarnation of Zelda in the past quarter-century.  There is, of course, no better way to celebrate your twenty-fifth birthday than by having an equestrian sculpture made of yourself.

The main draw for the Con though, and why my family insisted on my attendance, was actually not the old favorites, but rather Merlin. We've all fallen in love with the show, so it was expected that I should check out the Merlin stars appearing at the Con, snap some blurry pictures, ideally steal an article of clothing, and report back.  Without further ado, I give you:

Merlin.

Morgan James as Merlin.  Very adorable and very shy.  In real life, his ears are almost close to normal size.

Morgana.

Katie McGrath as Morgana.  Beautiful, bubbly, and can rock a ponytail like nobody's business.

Arthur.

Bradley James as Arthur.  Yes--just as hot in real life.  And you can cut silk scarves on his cheekbones.


My favorite quote came courtesy of Bradley James, in discussing his character's growth in Season 3:  "Merlin's magic, Morgana's evilness.  Arthur's oblivious to all of it.  Makes life much easier."  During the panel, Morgana was chatty, vivacious and charming while Merlin, hidden under a baseball cap, was shy and reticent--preferring to speak little and let his co-stars field most of the questions.  Arthur has perfected the stern, serious stare--often peering out into the audience as if he is focusing on maintaining the appropriate level of chisel for the jaw. 

I am the once and future king.

At one point, Arthur looked out into the audience and noticed a girl wearing, I kid you not, cat ears.  "I like the ears," he says, "very nice."  Frak me.  I knew I should have packed the cat ears.

No Really

Point of fact:  I have actually been working.  

My dissertation on Jules Dalou focuses predominately on his public works, sculptures found in parks, squares, and along city streets.  These sculptures, often large and commissioned by the public or the state, usually commemorate something or another--most often a significant person in French history, but sometimes an idea.  In addition to Dalou, many other sculptors of the Third Republic contributed a plethora of monuments to the public spaces of Paris.  This is all just a long-winded way of saying that walking around the city is also research.

So here is just a sprinkling of some of the important stuff (academically speaking) that I’ve tracked down so far.

Salle de Dalou, Petit Palais.

I have yet to track down Dalou's public monuments (that task is reserved for the next two weeks), so I have begun with looking at other various types of sculpture Dalou has done.  The most important "indoor" find is without doubt the Petit Palais.  The Petit Palais houses the largest collection of Dalou's works, though only a small selection is ever on display at once.  In addition to the room shown here, the Petit Palais also has a really interesting study for Dalou's Triumph of the Republic, which I visited my first night in Paris during the Fête de la Musique.

Pont Alexandre III.

Not far from the Petit Palais, the Pont Alexandre III spans the Seine with enormous stone monumentality and gilded gold glamor.  Dalou himself contributed to the bridge with four colossal stone lions, accompanied by the chubby children and vegetal still-lives typical of the sculptor's oeuvre.

I am quite fond of these lions--they possess a kind of Baroque grandeur, infused with a 19th-century artist's eye for naturalism.  While I would have to bet on a Barye-lion in a fight, I think the Dalou-lion is probably too dignified to stoop to cat-fighting, so happily I can avoid picking favorites.

Blanqui, Père Lachaise Cemetery.

Dalou also contributed two tombs to the famous Père Lachaise Cemetery (most famously known as the final resting place of Jim Morrison).  More on them (and probably Jim Morrison) later.

Frémiet, Joan of Arc, Places des Pyramides.

In many ways a counterpoint the revolutionary and republican works of Dalou, Frémiet's shining monument to Joan of Arc is royalist, reactionary, and catholic.  While Third Republic radicals were hanging out at Dalou's Triumph of the Republic, royalists went to go hang flowers on Joan.

Auguste Paris, Monument to Dantan, by the Odéon, Blvd. St. Germain.

If the Joan of Arc is Dalou's opposite, then the Dantan would be his compatriot.  When I saw this work, protesters chanted vociferously at its feet.  Despite the fact that this makes photographing this sculpture for research purposes quite impossible, it is ideologically the best way to view this sculpture as it was contested in its time for Dantan's position as a radical revolutionary.

St. Michel Fountain, Plaee St. Michel.

I'll be honest--I just threw this in at the end because it is awesome.  St. Michel with sword = epic.  Winged dragons spitting water = epic.  Ok--if you insist--that St. Michel up there was supposed to be Napoleon Bonaparte, but was rejected for academically interesting political reasons. 

I'll be honest again--I just wrote this heavily academic post so I could write the next one guilt-free.  Stay tuned.

The Birds

When I first arrived, I was charmed by the birds of Paris.  Big fat gorgeous doves, with soft cooing voices.  Docile and trusting--they allow you to nudge up next to them so you can take a nice picture of the adorable Parisian birds.

Awwwww . . . . How nice!

THIS IS NOT TRUE.

The birds of Paris are demonic creatures.  If you do not feed them, they will kill you.  KILL YOU.

The other day, I was just hanging out at Notre Dame, taking pictures of a late 19th-century monument of Charlemagne when all the sudden I was almost viciously killed by a pack of sweet, cooing doves.  A man I will henceforth call "Harbinger of Doom" (HoD), was entertaining a pack of unsuspecting tourists by feeding the birds.  As people held their arms out (all martyr-like), HoD had the doves alight on their hands and arms, as people watched with (misguided) glee and amusement.

Then, at moment's notice, the pack (herd? horde? murderous rampage? Hellz no I'm not going to call it a "flock") of birds suddenly took to the skies, and swarmed towards the Monument of Charlemagne.  Tourists screamed, ran, ducked for cover, reached for their BB guns and umbrellas and, to nutshell it--all hell broke loose.  The sculpture become covered with the birds--waiting and biding their time until they could fly back, one by one, to start their reign of terror anew.

One of the evil spawn returning to his master . . .

The very next day, two birds flew down to my (unscreened and therefore completely exposed) window.  I would have taken a photo, but I was too busy readying my arsenal (i.e. frantically looking around for ways to defend myself should worse turn to worse).  And to think, I contemplated putting up a damn birdhouse for the little hellions.

The moral of this story?  It's all fun and games until people's faces start getting ripped off.

Dinosaurs --> Birds --> Alien monsters of death.

Stops Along the Way

Since I've arrived in Paris, I have proven myself completely unable to get to a destination without getting distracted.  In addition to being a great way to see the city, the fact that I am perpetually tacking on kilometers to otherwise short trips has done much to offset the quantities of wine, bread, and cheese I've consumed.  One time, I left to get a baguette, and ended up here:

Hôtel de Ville.  It is very nice, but they don't have bread.

More recently, I decided to take my first stab at the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, where I will eventually be spending much of my time.  That went ok.  Much more interesting is what I stumbled upon on the way.

Rocking some bling at the Jardin de l'Arsenal.

Walking around the city, I find myself constantly jostling for space, then will suddenly find myself almost completely alone.  On my way to the Bibliothèque, I wandered into the Jardin de l'Arsenal, which was practically empty, except for a few stray couples strolling or sitting on park benches, and this lovely little sculpture in a corner filled with pale pink roses.  Since I am continuously wearing Peace Love Bling pearls, I figure it would be rude not to share them.

Monument to Barye.

A previous post has revealed my unabashed love for Barye, the so-called Michelangelo of the Menagerie.  Turns out I'm not the only one to love him, as he has a nice little park named for him.  Square Barye juts out into the Seine, on the triangular, easternmost point of the Ile Saint-Louis.  The few Barye original works to have been initially installed en plein air have since been removed, but this monument is crowned by a 20th-century cast of one of Barye's more famous works.

At the bottom of the Monument to Rimbaud.

I am consistently drawn to sculptures, both by affinity and for my work, so I spend much of my time looking at monuments--big, important, commissioned stuff.  On this walk alone, I came across an equestrian of Louis XIII, a monument to Beaumarchais, some sculptures by Emmanuel Frémiet in the Jardin des Plantes, and a surprise Delacroix painting tucked away in Eglise St. Paul St. Louis (not a sculpture, but certainly monumental).   But the city is full of little things too--tiny gems that are easy to miss, transient events that slip away as soon as you notice them, graffiti that might disappear at any moment.  I like the graffiti.  In a city like Paris, where it is easy to get overwhelmed by the richness and density of just being there, the graffiti seems like a quiet, contemporary voice inserted into the cacophony of the city's long history.

Photos à la Famille

The Buren Columns.  I spent a long time here.

There are, to be sure, certain advantages to traveling alone.  You can see whatever you want, whenever you want, and if you are an art historian who wants to spend outrageous time in front of one painting, you can do so without enraging your companion.  You can also commit embarrassing cultural and language gaffes without an audience, which is nice.  You can get lost, whether pleasantly or unpleasantly, without either annoying or terrifying a traveling partner, and are free to pursue whatever avenue of exploration you like.  I find that I cannot walk from point a to point b without ducking into an interesting park(s), a church(s), or a shop(s), which could be quite frustrating for someone who really wants to get to point b without it taking an extra hour (or two).

There are, of course, many disadvantages to traveling alone, the majority of which I won’t delineate here.  The most significant, for me, must be that you find yourself walking along consistently wanting to point out interesting things to an absent companion.  I find that taking photographs is a satisfying substitute for this urge, so my photo albums, in addition to having pictures taken for myself--to record the trip, to remember where I was, to note something I found particularly compelling--also consist of photographs taken for assorted people in my life.

Mom-shot = plants.

There is what my sisters and I call the “Mom-shot.”  When Jackie and I visited Chicago, we consistently took photographs of each other in front of completely random gardens, flowers, and plants in order to replicate our mom’s own desire to have photographs in front of botanical sort of things.  When I go through my pictures, and find otherwise unremarkable pictures of flowers, and I can’t figure out why I would have recorded such a thing, I remember, oh yes, it’s a Mom-shot.

This is a Jack museum shot, not a dog shot.

When Jack and I go through museums together, she frequently amuses herself by picking out the most strange, grotesque, or odd pieces of art that she either loves or hates.  When I am by myself then, I am forced to guess at which art works would catch her eye.  My first trip to the Petit Palais has garnered what I am sure will soon become her new favorite sculptor:  Jean Carries.  Being around Jack has also made me attuned to two things that I would otherwise not notice:  bridal shops and dogs, which now punctuate my photographic account of the city.   For the record, I have taken a photo of every bridal shop in Paris I have walked by.  I have, so far, (mostly) avoided taking photos of people with interesting dogs, lest the French are not ok with being photographed by strange American tourists. So far I have spotted numerous Papillons, one Dogue de Bordeaux, one Bouvier des Flandres, and much to Jack’s excitement, one Border Terrier.  I admit--I took a creepy, stalky picture of the Bouvier, and tried to take a photo of the Border.  Ok--turns out, when I think people aren't watching, I will take creepy, stalky photos of dogs.  But it is Jack’s fault. 

Epic @ Pont Alexandre III.

For Becca, I gravitate towards things that might be considered “epic.”  Other words for it might be “dorky” or perhaps “geeky” (though I mean that in the best way possible.  Please see Psych, Season 5, Episode 3).  Such photos would include:  swords, ships, and advertisements for the Paris Comic-Con (its this weekend kids!!  Colin Morgan autograph, anyone??).

Nicole:  "I'll take that one, and that one, and that one...."

The most common Nicole shot will invariably consist of artistically crafted, decadent creations of sugar, chocolate, fondant, butter, and cream.  When I stood in line at Ladurée to buy my first Parisian macarons, I amused myself by taking photos of the various confections on display.   I have yet to find a guimauve (marshamallow) quite disgusting enough to record, but when I do, you know I’ll take a picture of it.