Joseph, “What does a kiss mean,” 2018. Acrylic, collage and résin on wood. 110 x 80 cm. Courtesy Galerie Roy Sfeir, 6 rue de Seine, Paris. From Lutéce Diary No. 3.
AMOUR & ART, TEETH & TROUBLE, LOVE & DEATH, MERGUEZ & DIPLOMAT(E) PUDDING
For five months in 2019, Paul Ben-Itzak returned to his old stomping-grounds in Paris to have his teeth overhauled and had his heart up-ended, only to fall in love with Paris — known in Roman times as Lutèce — again and again. Generously laced with the work of contemporary and historic artists and packed with cinematic, political, literary, culinary, funereal, incendiary (a Latitude Zero report from Notre-Dame) and even the occasional scatological and fromagological reference, The Lutèce Diaries: A Post-modern American in Paris is the story of his saga, the saga of a Post-modern American in Paris grappling with life and extreme dental surgery, a corporeal blood-letting in the footsteps of Truffaut and James, Kelly and Caron, Hepburn and Grant, that produced a concomitant flow of purple prose. To access the full episodes, just click on the links below. To make a contribution and support our next plunge in Paris, just designate your payment in dollars or Euros via PayPal to email@example.com , or write us at that address to ask how to donate by check. All articles by Paul Ben-Itzak unless otherwise noted. Most recent listed first. The Lutèce Diaries: A Post-modern American in Paris were made possible by the generous contributions of, among others, Edward Winer, Eva Wise, Linda Ramey, Aaron Winer, Don Singer, Chris Keel, Polly Hyslop, Dean Clark, Sharon Savage, Henri & Rosie Bulit, Carole Vidoni, Jamie Phillips, Matt Brookoff, Nancy Reynolds, Freespace Dance, Slippery Rock Dance, and Lewis Campbell and Kathleen Azevedo. For links to individual columns, see the end of the excerpts below.
LUTÈCE DIARY / A POST-MODERN AMERICAN IN PARIS, 40: THE GIFT (LE CADEAU) OR, POUR EN FINIR AVEC LE CÉLINE-O-MANIA
by Paul Ben-Itzak
Translations by Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2020 Paul Ben-Itzak
A Sidney, pour les soins….et a Lewis, Jamie, Martin, et tout mes péres, qui rien n’avais obligé d’y etre mais qui se sont comporté comme tel. /To Sidney, for the care…. and to Lewis, Jamie, Martin, and all my fathers who nothing obligated to be but who comported themselves as such.
Prelude: Poete surrealiste chretienne morte a Drancy, car née Juif
“Love thy neighbor”
Who noticed the toad cross the street? He was just a little man — a doll would not have been more miniscule. He dragged himself along on his knees — as if he were ashamed….? No! He has rheumatism, one leg remains behind, he drags it forward! Where is he going like that? He comes out of the sewer, the poor clown. No one has noticed this toad in the street. Before no one noticed me in the street, now children make fun of my yellow star. Happy toad! You don’t have a yellow star.” (Voir dessous pour le V.O. / See below for the original French version.)
— Max Jacob, Surrealist poet, comrade of Cocteau, Apollinaire, and Picasso, arrested by the Gestapo on February 24, 1944, in the Brittany village of Saint-Benoit-sur-Loire. In a note hastily scribbled on the train to the Orleans prison, Jacob, who since converting to Christianity before the first World War liked to write personalized proselytizing homilies for his colleagues and whose poetry was suffused with devotional tributes to Christ, wrote: “Dear Monsieur le Cure, Excuse this letter from a drowning man written with the complaisance of the gendarmes. I wanted to tell you that I’ll soon be in Drancy. I have conversions in process. I have confidence in God and in my friends. I thank Him for the martyrdom which now begins.” On March 5, Jacob succumbed to pneumonia at the Drancy way station outside Paris before he could be deported — or confessed. At Drancy, there were no priests. (Poem collected in “Max Jacob,” edited by Andre Billy, published by and copyright Editions Pierre Seghers, Lyon, February 15, 1946. Letter cited by Billy in “The death of Max Jacob,” Le Figaro, September 9, 1945.)
1932: The Semence
Paris, the Grands Boulevards, a winter evening in 1916. The young conscript, on furlough from the hospital where doctors are trying to determine if he’s crazy or just doesn’t want to return to the trenches of a crazy war, enters the Olympia nightclub and observes, as recounted by Louis-Ferdinand Céline in his 1932 “Voyage au bout de la nuit,” still considered by the French and American literary establishments to be the author’s safe, non-Anti-Semitic book (shortly after publication, it was translated into Russian by the French Communist super-star couple Louis Aragon and Elsa Triolet; New Directions still proudly hawks the English translation):
“Already in wartime our morose peace was sowing its seeds…. We could imagine what it would become, this hysteria, just from seeing it already agitating in the Olympia tavern. Below in the narrow, shady dancing cave with its 100 mirrors, It pawed the dust in the great desperation of the Négro-Judéo-Saxonne music. Brits and Blacks all mingling together. Levantines and Russians. They were everywhere, smoking, brawling, sad sacks and soldiers, crammed onto crimson sofas. These uniforms, which we barely remember anymore, would sow the seeds of today, this Thing which continues to germinate and would become a dung-hill a little later, with time.” (Translated by PB-I.)
1940-45: The Harvest
Some 13 years after Louis-Ferdinand Céline thus fulminated (the parallels between his own trajectory and that of his first-person hero, “Ferdinand,” make the defense that an author doesn’t necessarily subscribe to the opinions of his personage dubious), the ‘semence’ he (and his publishers, including Gallimard) helped sow (in ‘Voyage’ and three pamphlets taxed as being anti-Semitic, although the Judeophobic grotesque Céline paints of himself and of the anti-Semitic rationale in general in the 1937 “Bagatelles for a massacre,” in which he also wrote: “In the leg of a dancer the world, its waves, all its rhythms, its follies, its views are inscribed…. The most nuanced poem in the world!,” the ‘bagatelles’ being ballets without music, makes that epithet problematic here) by furnishing civilized literary cover for his countrymen who would collaborate with the German occupiers in the Deportation of 76,000 of their Jewish neighbors, including 11,000 children, only 3,000 of whom would return from the death camps — Auschwitz was liberated 75 years ago this month — manifests its real-world toll on the sixth-floor balcony of a building on a corner of the rue Hauteville above the “Bonne Nouvelles” (Good News) Metro station, several blocks up the Grands-Boulevards from the Olympia, where a woman straddles the railing, distraught that the daughter arrested by a good French policeman after she was turned in by a good French neighbor has still not returned after the war, the room the woman has reserved for her child remaining vacant.
The precarious mental state of the woman had recently prompted her brother and his wife to return from the United States to France, where the wife will later give birth to three sons, the semence of a new generation of French Jews who have not lost hope in France. Two of the sons will grow up to become, respectively, a general practitioner and a dentist — my doctor and my dentist starting when I lived on the rue de Paradis up the street in the early 2000s — converting the apartment on whose balcony rail their aunt once teetered into a medical bureau, their offices separated by a waiting room decorated by posters of Satchmo blowing, Gabriel, blowing, his cheeks puffed up; Marilyn Monroe’s white skirt billowing from the gusts of wind rising out of a subway grating on location for “The Seven-Year Itch” to reveal her underwear; and Jean-Paul Belmondo ‘draguing’ the American Jean Seberg on the Champs as she hawks the New York Herald Tribune with its logo emblazoned across her chest in Jean-Luc Godard’s “Breathless,” this last poster a nod to what I’d always understood as the doctors’ mixed Franco-American heritage, their mother being an American citizen.
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LUTÈCE DIARY, 39: AUGUST 31, 1944 — CRITIQUE OF THE NEW PRESS / CRITIQUE DE LA NOUVELLE PRESSE (FRENCH ORIGINAL FOLLOWS ENGLISH TRANSLATION)
by Albert Camus
Translated by Paul Ben-Itzak
First published in the August 31, 1944 edition of Combat, the heretofore underground newspaper edited by Albert Camus. To read our English translation of Jean-Paul Sartre’s dispatch from the same issue of Combat, click here. To read our review with extracts of the recently published correspondence of Albert Camus’s correspondence with Maria Casarès, click here. After returning to Paris with false identity papers furnished by the Resistance, Albert Camus was the underground newspaper Combat’s final editor under the Occupation, on one occasion (as documented by Olivier Todd in his 1996 biography for Gallimard) being saved from being busted with proofs of the newspaper in his pocket at a Gestapo checkpoint when he was able to deftly pass the proofs to Casarès, correctly guessing that she would not be searched.
PARIS — Because between the insurrection and the war, a respite has today been granted us, I’d like to talk about a subject that I know well and which is dear to my heart: the Press. And because it’s a question of this new Press which has emerged from the battle of Paris, I’d like to speak with, at the same time, the fraternity and the clairvoyance one owes to comrades in combat. For the full story, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARY, 38: AUGUST 26-27, 1944: A PROMENEUR IN PARIS OR, LUTÈCE FIRES BACK
by Jean-Paul Sartre
Translated by Paul Ben-Itzak
First published in the August 31, 1944 edition of Combat, the heretofore underground newspaper edited by Albert Camus.
PARIS — Today I’ll tell you about the battles as I myself observed them, on the Quai des Grands-Augustins, rounding out my reports with the eye-witness accounts of reliable friends. Perhaps the battle had other, broader aspects. But in this constrained strip of terrain, delimited at the east by the place Saint-Michel and at the west by the rue Dauphine, it unfolded with precision and clarity.
The initial skirmishes began Saturday at about 3 a.m.. Since the previous day, we’d seen a steady stream of cars, trucks, and tanks. Beginning at 3 a.m., in small groups, men in shirt-sleeves nonchalantly crossed the road and installed themselves on the river-bank. Few guns, scattered rifles, one or two grenades, revolvers, no ammunition. The orders were clear: Kill a German, take his gun, use the gun to capture a rifle, with the rifle commandeer a car, with the car take a machine-gun and a tank. Among the incredulous resistants, more than one person thought this plan was hilarious. And yet, there before my very eyes, it worked. One of my friends fought with a musket requisitioned from an antique shop. Though he didn’t hang on to it for long; in less than half an hour, a member of the F.F.I. (Interior French Forces), unarmed himself, tore it from his hands: “Give it to me, I shoot better than you.” For the full story, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARY, 37: BRANDED OR, IT MAY BE MANET’S WORLD, BABY, BUT IT WOULDN’T BE NOTHIN’ WITHOUT BERTHE MORISOT
Berthe Morisot, “Young woman at her window” (Portrait of Mme Pontillon) (likely Morisot’s sister Edma, also a painter), 1869. Oil on canvas, 54.8 x 46.3 cm. Washington, National Gallery of Art, legacy of Mrs. Ailsa Mellon Bruce, 1970, n° inv. 1970.17.47. © Image courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC.
From the Arts Voyager archives and the recent exhibition at the Jeu de Paume: Ana Mendieta, “Creek.”
“Judged by the men who have the privilege of creation, feminine painting will always be the expression, wondrous or servile, of a reflection…. Let’s just say that the women don’t so much borrow as refer to. Morisot to Manet, Cassatt to Degas. But there’s one universe where the women are triumphant, that towards which their ideal carries them: Maternity, childhood….”
— Francis Mathey, director, Museum of Decorative Arts, Paris, in “Impressionists in their time,” Fernand Hazen, 1959.
“Si tu veux etre un homme, ne pas mourir avant d’avoir vécu, écarte-toi des idées toutes faites, de la nourriture machée et des récompenses. Si tu es peintre, regarde simplement en toi-même. Quand on n’est pas stérile, on n’adopte pas les enfants des autres.”*
— Maurice de Vlaminck, “Tournant Dangereux,” 1929, ré-édition 2008 copyright sVo Art, Versailles. (Reflexions apres avoir fait le Guerre de 14-18.)*
For the full story — and a lot more pictures — click here.
LUTÈCE DIARY, 36, 6-19-19: THE BUTCHER, THE BAKER, & THE FROMAGE MAKER OR, PEARLS BEFORE SWINE (W/APOLOGIES TO KURT VONNEGUT JR)
Marie Laurencin, “Les Biches,” image copyright Artcurial, from its recent Prints and Illustrated Books auction in Paris.
“I saw a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac
Singing don’t look back you can never look back.”
— Don Henley, “The Boys of Summer”
PARIS — I know I said I’d sworn off cemeteries, determined to spend more time with the living and less with my dead icons: Sarah Bernhardt (Pere Lachaise), François Truffaut (Cemetery Montmartre), Serge Gainsbourg and Alfred Dreyfus (Montparnasse; French state radio this morning shared a rare recording of Captain Dreyfus from March 27, 1912, proclaiming in a crystal-clear tenor, “It’s a question of justice and humanity.” The most sadly ironic aspect of the Dreyfus family tomb is that under “Alfred, died 1932” is the name of “Julie, deported 1942.” Justice and humanity are ephemeral. Among Dreyfus’s cemetery mates is the collaborationist Vichy prime minister Pierre Laval, who no doubt signed his niece’s deportation order — Laval’s tomb, like Lee Harvey Oswald’s in the sprawling bone orchard of Handley, Texas where I used to live, also known for its antique stores, wedding cake shops, and doll boutiques, is unmarked.) But could I help it if in late February I found myself standing on the sunken deck of a lavish condominium shoulder to shoulder with a two-ton bronze Buddha (“The movers finally agreed to try to lift it over the fence from the street with the understanding that they couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t drop it,” the condo’s sultry 62-year-old French owner told us.) looking out over the back, penumbrous, most sinister-looking gruesome end / wall of Pere Lachaise (if my cemetery memory serves me, and I think you know it does, on the other side of the monument to the Resistants and up the hill from Apollinaire’s babe Marie Laurencin; to read the Surrealist poet’s art reviews of the time — I recently scored a compendium of them at a vide-grenier on the fringes of the Montparnasse cemetery — you’d think she was the most talented female artist in Paris of the epoch), floundering in a doomed relationship (Apollinaire did better) and smarting over the reception my date’s supposedly Leftist Israeli friend “Schmuel” had given my Poulet a la Palestinian? (“What is it with this ‘Palestinian’ Chicken? I’ve never heard of anything so absurd. There’s no such thing!”) As I was well out of it, in retrospect it was probably a good thing that I’d put the nail in the coffin by fixing our RDV at the Pere Lachaise metro, ignoring that the last time I’d made a date at a bone orchard — with an American girl who’d hung a large picture of Albert Camus in her otherwise spartan pad on the fringes of Les Halles because “He’s so cute!” — just ahead of a rdv to see Jean Cocteau’s “Orpheus” in the Montmartre cinema where he designed the aluminum chandeliers (it’s where Amelie in the film goes to the movies) had also marked a a relationship’s swan song. Click here for the full story.
LUTÈCE DIARY, 35, 6-13-19: A DREAMCATCHER MEETS THE WHITE PIMPLE ON THE ILE ST.-LOUIS
When I passed into the valley of Ti-n-tamat, I said in my interior to [my wife] The-anegh:
The night is coming; I’m going to look for the camels.
The-anegh, sleep will not come to me [because the thought of you is ever-present].
— Elkhasen agg Ikki des Kel Amedjid (1830 – 1894), Touareg poet, translated into French by Charles de Foucauld, as cited by Amalia Dragani and published by the journal Africa of the University of Cambridge in PB-I’s translation of her article
Lay down my child
and rest your head
Gonna hang the dreamcatcher
Right over your bed.
Lay down, lay down
Don’t be afraid
Gonna chase the bad dreams away.
— Donna Summer, “Dreamcatcher”
I fall in love too easily.
— Frank Sinatra
PARIS — Absent the red wine, I had to look for my sparkle elsewhere, and soon found it in the violette-maned, bespectacled young woman sitting 20 feet away from me dangling her fuchsia-stockinged legs over the tip of the Ile St.-Louis facing a Notre-Dame somewhat the worse for wear after 800 years. Moi, with my shining new teeth I wasn’t quite so decrepit as the church, at least on the outside. For the full story, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARY, 34, 6-6-19: AN AMERICANIZATION IN PARIS; ABSTRACTIONS ST.-GERMAINOPRETAN
Nicolas de Stael, “Plage,” 1954. Oil on canvas, 24 x 33 cm. Courtesy Galerie Jeanne Bucher Jaeger, from the exhibition running at its Saint-Germain-des-Près space through July 20.
PARIS — The concrete plaque on the fence midway up the rue Menilmontant above the weed-submerged tracks of the “Petite Ceinture” which winds around Paris commemorates the three men, aged 20 to 53, who gave their lives in August 1944 to liberate their city from the German occupiers, in the conviction that waiting for the Allied troops — which landed on the beaches of Normandy 75 years ago today — to do so would be to surrender their future to the Yankees. So why has the mayor of Paris — who made sure passersby knew the fresh flowers tacked to the plaque were from her — so readily ceded to the increasingly rampant Americanization of Lutèce without a fight? For the full story, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARY, 33, 5-22-19: LITERARY DREAMS OR, WHY AM I BETTER AT NEGOTIATING PRICES FOR OLD BOOKS THAN NEGOTIATING LIFE?
PARIS — When I was 18 and getting ready to go to Princeton, I was having wet dreams of young women. Now that I’m 58 I find myself drooling over the course descriptions of Old Nassau’s department of Comparative Literature, and the young women in my dreams are selling old books for one Euro. For the full story, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARY, 32, 5-21-19: BELLEVILLE FOREVER OR, LA MARCHÉ LE PLUS PARFAIT DU MONDE
This one goes out to Christine, for the apricots of Bensonhurst.
PARIS — There are moments that are so perfectly poignant there’s no time-lapse between the experience and the instant it moves you to tears. I lived several of them this afternoon, immersed in the quiet, raincloud-tempered, rainbow-tinted crowd weaving through the outdoor Belleville market thinking this is why I need Paris, this is what I thrive on in Paris and why I thrive in Paris, this is what I live for in Paris, this is how I live in Paris, this is how I breathe in Paris, this is how we live and breathe in Paris, in and from its old book and cheap food markets and the mental, physical, and social sustenance they nourish us with, the solidarity with my multi-colored, multi-aged, multi-background comrades looking for the same thing, craving the same thing — not just the books and the food but also the society — then climbing up the rue Menilmontant before descending into the grounds of an ancient train track, “The Petite Ceinture” (little belt) that used to wind around Paris and is now guarded by a plaque on a grating above the tracks, these last overgrown with weeds and flanked by brush and trees, the plaque above them commemorating three resistants aged from 23 to 50 who gave their lives to liberate Paris 75 years ago, now opened to the public (but Shhhh!; the BoBos don’t seem to know about this halcyon and verdant endroit yet; let’s leave them to their 4-Euro cookie shop further up Menilmontant), where I lunched under the alternately grey, drizzly, and clearing Paris sky (a bucolic ambiance only partly perturbed by the occasional drilling nearby) on my Chinese greens and meat pancake (1.20 at Chez Alex on the rue Belleville), wedge of blue cheese and hot fresh mint thermos tea on a made to look makeshift wooden chaise comprised of wooden planks with my provisions for the week-filled backpack posed on another, between acacias being pollinated by a vibrant bee colony (unlike the countryside, no pesticides or imported hornets to kill them here) while looking across the tracks at a panoply of multi-leveled architecture, from the single grey dilapidated shack (on whose flower-pot adorned window ledge one large black tailed by one large white cat appeared after we’d all finished our lunches licking their chops) to a mid-sized building whose staccato, different-colored square windows made it look like a Mondrian painting, to the high-rise on whose wall a multi-line dark-brown zig-zag streaked down all the way to the pavement of the rue Menilmontant. For the full story, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARY, 31, 5-20-2019: VOTE ORIGAMI!, OR, BLOOD ON THE METRO FLOOR
PARIS — The inspiring thing about living in France during a European Parliamentary election campaign is the plethora of political parties (34 at last count — each accorded equal space) that sprout up on the cadenzas of steel placards installed in front of schools and other public buildings. What’s left this observer most incredulous ahead of Sunday’s vote (France holds its elections on Sundays, so more people can actually vote) is not the “Partie Animaliste” nor the “Partie Esperanto” nor even that the parties on the Far Right seem to have an easier time finding brown faces for their posters than those on the Left but that the slogans for the major parties or figures are so banal. Thus with Benoit Hamon — the Socialist candidate for the last presidential election who polled all of 6 percent and took his party down with him — we can count on “Hope Returning” if his new party “Generation” wins. (Which generation? French political parties aren’t particularly strong on nomenclature. A party calling itself “New Center” has had that name for 12 years.) And it’s certainly not the hashtag which makes Europe Ecology (the Greens; it was Danny “Le Rouge” Cohn-Bendit, the leader of the May 1968 student rebellion now retired from politics, who came up with that rebaptization) the party I’d vote for if I could vote: “Vote for the climate!” Okay…. exactly which climate would that be? I mean, who’s going to vote *against* the climate? Actually, I should have said “would have voted for until Saturday,” which is when I discovered the “Mouvement Francaise des Plieurs (Folders) de Papier” while heading out from the Marché des Producteurs de Vin on the Boulevard Reuilly and no, this was not a wine-tasting inspired hallucination because I didn’t have a drop, apart from the turnip and colza seed tapenade and okay, a nip or two of prune juice and more foie gras than a kid from California should probably boast of nibbling. For the full story, click here.
Invitation for the vernissage of Kristin Meller’s exhibition in Belleville. Art courtesy Kristin Meller.
LUTÈCE DIARY, 30, 5-17-19: HOP TO IT OR, THE UNIVERSE IN A GRAIN OF LAPIN
PARIS — At a vernissage in a store-front gallery on the rue Cascades last night I received a graphic proposition with reproductive implications: 46 variations contained in (or slightly spilling over from) a single rabbit’s profile, sometimes reversed (from right-leaning to left-leaning) and revealing the infinite possibilities if not for skinning a rabbit than at least for being creative in and around its skin, at least when your name is Kristin Meller, who seems to thrive on setting rules (or limitations) when she’s making art, here in the sense that the universe for this ongoing series is circumscribed by the exoskeleton of Peter (or Pam) Cottontail. And Beatrix Potter has nothing on Kristin Meller. For the full story, hop to it and click here.
LUTÈCE DIARY, 29, 5-15-19: FOR SALE, LUTÈCE OR, THEY TOOK PARADISE (AND SAN FRANCISCO, AND BROOKLYN) AND PUT UP ONE LARGE BISTRO
Not just a lot of hot air: Residents of Paris’s historic Belleville district, seen here protesting on a recent Sunday up top the parc Belleville outside the shuttered Maison d’Air, are worried that the mayor of Paris wants to sell the space to a private concessionaire who will turn it into another BoBo bistro. Images courtesy Collectif for the Maison d’Air for Residents.
PARIS — Yesterday afternoon in a courtyard atelier on the rue Tourtille — not far from where on May 28, 1871 the Paris Commune made its last stand and where at 3 a.m. on November 14, 2015, when I was living in the same building, a distant car alarm awoke me to the news of the massacres — a group of artists and activists was busy making signs for an ambulatory protest Sunday against the ongoing privatization of Belleville, specifically talk of plans by the mayor of Paris to sell off the closed site of the Maison de l’air up top the parc Belleville just below the belvedere (offering one of the most spectacular views of the city, including the Eiffel tower) to a private concessionaire who will no doubt lease it to yet another restaurant (because G-d knows if there’s one thing we need in Belleville, it’s more restaurants). For the full story, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARIES, 28, 5-6-19: WELCOME TO THE MONKEY HOUSE, OR, HEADLESS BODY FOUND IN WATERLESS ARENA
Jean Fouquet, “The Right Hand of God Protecting the Faithful against the Demons,” circa 1452–1460. Courtesy Metropolitan Museum of Art. For more information on the tableau, click here.
“My desire will be happy to learn
what fate awaits me:
Expected arrow don’t hit me so hard.”
— Danté (Paradise, song 17, pages 25-27)
“Well, you know that I love to live with you
But you make me forget so very much
I forget to pray for the angels
And then the angels forget to pray for us.”
— Leonard Cohen, “So long Marianne,” being sung by a busker behind Notre-Dame on Easter Sunday, 2019
PARIS — Here are some of my memories associated with Notre-Dame: Being shocked to learn, from a sign posted on the church’s gates in 2005, that among those who would be choosing the successor to Pope John-Paul was the disgraced Boston cardinal Bernard Law.… Stiffing a French girl I was dating in 2002 to go to an improvisation match between the N-D organ and a tuba, which cued our final rupture…. Crossing the short bridge (its brown iron railings recently replaced with love-lock proof glass) over the Seine in the shadow of the church on which Charles Boyer held a clandestine RDV with Ingrid Thulin in occupied Paris in Vincente Minelli’s 1962 “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse” (and above where Gene Kelly waltzed Leslie Caron in Minelli’s 1951 “An American in Paris”) in 2006 with a girl named Charlotte Lejeune who made my heart feel jeune again after seeing Katherine Dunham and Lena Horne in “Stormy Weather” at a cinema on the rue Christine near where Miles had wooed Greco at the Club Taboo and dining on buckwheat crepes and hard cider on the rue Mouffetard, and hearing her declare upon beholding Notre-Dame, “Elle est BELLE!” For the full story, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARIES, 27, 5-1-19: COMMENT ON RESPIRE A PARIS / HOW TO BREATHE IN PARIS
Françoise Carré and creations. Christian Dao photo copyright Christian Dao and courtesy Françoise Carré.
“The passerby who knows how to see always picks up an idea, like the bird who takes flight with a piece of straw for his nest.”
— Anatole France, in “Saint-Germain des Prés, my village,” Leo Larguier, Libraire Flon, Paris, 1938.
“The opposite of death isn’t life, it’s creation.”
— Jonathen Larsen, “RENT”
PARIS — Finding the Luxembourg Gardens closed for the third in four Saturdays several weeks ago — presumably out of concern it would be invaded by hoards of “yellow vests,” the Gardens also housing the French Senate — as well as the Explorers’ Garden which it abuts although in that case the Parisians who constitute the bulk of the ping-pongers, footballers, and fanciers of the Fountain of the Four Corners of the World which is the garden’s biggest draw just scaled the locked gates (only an older couple was thwarted, turning sadly back) — I decided to profit from the large slice of free time the universe had just handed me and stroll over to the Jardin des Plantes, banking on the fact that I’d get lost. For the full story, click here.
THE LUTÈCE DIARIES, 26, 3-26-19: DIMENSIONS
From Artcurial’s recent Estampes & Livres auction in Paris: Kees van Dongen, “De Seine,” 1962. Color lithograph on Japan paper, 39.1 x 59.7 cm Signed and justified “III/X.” Image copyright and courtesy Artcurial.
Marcel Lempereur-Haut, “Tete-mécanisée” (Mechanized head), 1916-1970. Oil on panel. Among the galleries in Saint-Germain-des-Près maintaining the standard set by their ancestors in the late 1940s and 1950s is OSP – Oeuvres sur Papier, with its self-professed “pronounced taste for the forgotten, the inclassable, women, writer-drawers, etching maniacs, and young painters.” The OSP also likes juxtapositions. Its recent exhibition at 7, rue Visconti — itself a mythic gallery street — paired the Modernist heads, hearts, and stars of Lempereur-Haut (1898 – 1986) with the drawings and water-colors (see below) of contemporary artist Maximilien Pellet (b. 1991), for whom, says the gallerist, “the hour of hyper-consumation visual, of the digestion of images is significant.” Photo by and courtesy Galerie OSP.
PARIS — Nearing the end of my virgin visit to Paris one brisk November afternoon in 2001, I stepped on my tippy-toes to touch a corner of the pedestal of a marble statue on the periphery of one of the two large fountains in the Tuileries gardens, where Augie Renoir and his pals used to pitch stones at the window of the Princess, who would toss bon-bons back at them. The idea was that a future Paul had touched the same spot and assured me “You’ll be back.” Which I did when I was, and have continued to do over the years (on both the receiving and giving end). If I chose this particular statue, it was probably because it featured a bare-breasted woman leaning (protectively I thought) over a child. (Living at the time in New York — where nary a human bronze bust was bared and a polychrome cow had caused a scandal because its teats weren’t covered — I’d found the French embrace of the beauty of the naked human body refreshing.) For the full story on the Maison de Traduction, click here.
THE LUTÈCE DIARIES, 25, 3-22-19: MONTMARTRE, COPYRIGHT “AMÉLIE” OR, WHY A DUCK SHOP BOTHERS ME SO MUCH
Suzanne Valadon (1865-1938), “Nu sortant du bain, ” circa 1904. Sanguine and crayon gras on paper. 25 x 20.30 cm. Collection Paul Lombard. Image courtesy and copyright Artcurial from its 2017 sale of the Collection of Paul Lombard. (Arts Voyager Archives.)
Dedicated to Martin Epstein on this his birthday. For the teaching.
PARIS — The last time I saw Montmartre, heart bleeding and gums aching, I made it as high as the grave of François Truffaut (down the path from Zola and up the hill from “Camille”), where, after imbibing a Paracetemol cocktail, I shouted “J’accuse” at the author of the five-film Antoine Doinel cycle that began with “The 400 Blows” for filling me up with an ideal of Paris love that did not exist. But Paris fairy-tale dreams die hard, so there I was again Monday afternoon huffing and puffing my way up the 400 flights of stairs from the netherworld of the Abbesses Metro, no doubt neighboring the subterranean tunnel through which is shot the pneumatic Delphine Seyrig (as the wife of his shoe-store owner boss) sends Antoine fixing a tryst in “Stolen Kisses,” the third film. For the full story on the Maison de Traduction, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARIES / POST-MOD AMERICAN IN PARIS, 24, 3-12-19: MIC-MAC SUR LE BOUL MICH OR, PING-PONG PADDLE WIELDING JOURNALIST ARMED ONLY WITH I.F. STONE’S WEEKLY SURROUNDED BY RIOT POLICE NEAR LUXEMBOURG GARDENS + WHY THE MASS DEPORTATION & DENATURALIZATION OF THE 1950S MAKES ICE LOOK LIKE IT TAKES ITS MARCHING ORDERS FROM AOC
Parisians march to demand liberation of American journalist… No, seriously, this is who the “Yellow-Jackets” (as I prefer to call them, even if the translation isn’t literal) like to think they are. Marcelo Brodsky, “Paris, 1968,” from the 1968 series “The Fire of Ideas.” Featured in the Arles exhibition 1968, What a Story! Courtesy of the artist, HFFA NYC & Rolf Art Gallery.
PARIS — Seriously, all I want to do is find a playmate. In addition to fixing my teeth so she’ll be able to see me and finding a way to make what comes out of my mouth (words) fetch (earn) what comes into it, this is why I came to Paris. C’est quand meme assez simple. On Saturday, March 2, I met a pretty dazzling — let’s say awesome — candidate. Someone who made my heart bouge as it hadn’t done since junior high school. So I returned to the same table-tennis court — at the Jardin des Explorateurs which abuts the Luxembourg Gardens — this past Saturday, paddles and balls in hand (by which I don’t mean les bijoux familial — inside joke), hoping she’d be back. For the full story, click here.
THE LUTÈCE DIARIES (A POST-MODERN AMERICAN IN PARIS), 23, 3-8-19: C’EST ÇA, LA FRANCE, OR, IS THE MUSLIM THE NEW JEW?
PANTIN (Seine-Saint-Denis), France — A month ago I found myself in a confrontation with Islamophobia as only Islamophobics on the Left are capable of producing it. To explain why they had a problem with Muslim women covering their bodies, their heads, or even their hair, two otherwise presumably cultured and intelligent people (she’s an independent publisher) I’d invited into my home offered the contradictory justifications that a) France is a lay country and b) France is a country with a Judeo-Christian tradition. For the full story, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARIES (A POST-MODERN AMERICAN IN PARIS), 22, 3-4-19: RIEN N’EST JOUÉ, MON CŒUR BATTE ENCORE (IT AIN’T OVER ’TIL IT’S OVER)
PARIS — I met someone over the week-end and in lieu of making like Albert Camus watching his telephone for four hours on a dreary autumn afternoon in his pad near the Luxembourg Gardens in 1944 waiting for Maria Casarès to call, it occurs to me that the best way to retain the sensation or feeling this girl provoked — even if it ultimately has to move on to someone else, because I have no idea whether I did the same for her — is not to evoke the details of the encounter itself in this forum (which might rightly put off the woman in question, even if I don’t know whether I’ll ever have the opportunity to tell her face-to-face the effect she had on me, preferable), but to flash back to the last time I experienced this sensation, in junior high school. For the full story, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARIES, 21 3-1-19: BORN TO BE A POST-MODERN AMERICAN IN PARIS OR, HELLO I’M DRACULA, AND I’VE COME TO DANCE
PARIS — Having decided that what I’m living and seeing and sensing and experiencing around me in Paris in 2019 (from my particular perspective, that of a California-born, San Francisco-bred, Princeton-educated, Alaska-humbled, New York-baptized, Texas-burned, Paris-tested, Dordogne-mellowed Eastern European – American – Western European migrant) has more resonance as a post-modern remake of Vincente Minelli’s 1951 film — albeit with my efforts to trace the footsteps of a 39-year-old Gene Kelly hobbled by the chronic sciatic of a 57-year-old I’m not a dancer, I just play one on the dance floor DJ-translator-actor — than a resurrection of Gallo-Roman Paris, and also in the hopes I’ll stop feeling (romance-wise) like a gladiator who keeps getting thrown to the lionesses and instead find my own Leslie Caron, still nursing her wounds as only a Frenchwoman can but ultimately ready to be healed and coaxed into taking my hand and dancing besides me along the Seine (think you might be her? Or just want to play ping-pong? Click here to find out more about me), I’ve decided to change the name of this column from “Lutèce Diaries” to “A post-modern American in Paris,” with a nod towards the mentor who first suggested this deconstruction.
On Wednesday night, then, I found myself comfortably ensconced in an Art Nouveau-style iron chaise attached to a concrete pillar of the belvedere perched atop the park Belleville looking out over the rooftops of Eastern Paris — if the Beaux Arts ball at which Kelly finally heals Caron’s war wounds and convinces her to click heels with him for a lifetime were held today, it would be displaced from Montmartre to Belleville, which has supplanted its Northern neighbor as the city’s artistic nucleus, notwithstanding what appears to be a losing battle to the encroaching forces of BoBo-dom — at just after twilight, waiting for the Eiffel to start scintillating as I gingerly gummed a morsel of Balkan Ajvar (eggplant and red peppers), spread on Lebanese flat bread, with the recalcitrant aid of the sole tooth remaining on the lower right side of the mouth, the lower left just coming out of the effects of the Novocain after my dentist had lopped off the morsel of sharp projecting bone which had been delaying the modeling of a downstairs denture to join the upstairs one. For the full story, click here.
THE LUTÈCE DIARIES, 20, 2-27-19: AMERICAN POST-MODERNS IN PARIS OR, HOW ROSEMARIE CASTORO CARVED OUT HALLOWED SPACES IN THE SEXIST SPACE OF THE ART WORLD
Rosemarie Castoro in a 1977 studio performance of her work “Beaver’s Trap.” Besides the sexual innuendo, the title also refers to the English translation of the artist’s Italian last name. Polaroid. Courtesy Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac, London · Paris · Salzburg. ©The Estate of Rosemarie Castoro.
“I’m not a minimalist. I’m a maximist.”
— Rosemary Castoro
PARIS — The first headline above echoes the way a mentor has characterized these meanderings. If I plead guilty, I could still do with more of Gene Kelly’s aplomb and serendipity in dancing with, wooing, and landing Leslie Caron from the quays of the Left Bank to a Beaux Arts Ball misplaced on the Butte Montmartre. Instead I keep feeling like Henry James’s Lambert Strether, who in “The Ambassadors” has more luck scoring a set of Victor Hugo at a bouquiniste’s Seine-side stand then scoring with an older Frenchwoman who finally rebuffs the middle-aged Boston Brahmin with a dose of Old World cynicism. So after a month — that’s a month too much — of having my American optimism sucked up by the Old World specimen in question, on Saturday I limped up the hill to Belleville, down the hill to a Place de Republique where 30 yellow-flag waving Kurds outnumbered 20 yellow-vest brandishing demonstrators and into the narrow ancient streets of the Marais. If there was too much American signage for my taste — I don’t care if your window boasts that “Our donuts are really fabulous,” would anyone really pay 6 Euros for a krispy-kreme sized beignet and a thimble-scale cup of coffee? — the angst produced by encroaching American cuisine was worth it for the delight of dancing with the Judson-era American artist Rosemarie Castoro on the four floors of the Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac (it’s like a mini-museum except it’s free), where through March 30 curator Anke Kempkes has mounted an extraordinary multi-media (Castoro excelled in all of them) exhibition on the artist who was like Yvonne Rainer, Trisha Brown, Robert Rauschenberg and Allen Ginsberg rolled into one. For the full story — and lots more pictures of the artist and her work — click here.
THE LUTÈCE DIARIES, 19, 2-25-19: “L’AMOUR EN FUITE” OR, AS ROMEO’S TEETH BLEED, LOVE LEAKS OUT
The published, (relatively) edited version of Lutèce Diary 16, (See below.) Written Monday, February 18. Re-written February 25 and dedicated to Pamela and Sabine in memory des belles moments passé autour de la rue des Martyrs. And to Emmanuelle Pretot, camarade en tout choses Truffaut.
PARIS — So there I was at dusk, heart broken and sentiments seeping out, teeth throbbing and gums bleeding profusely into a bandage I was trying in vain to grit (hard to grit when half your teeth are gone), staggering up the rue des Martyrs towards the Montmartre cemetery and the grave of the man I blamed it all on: François Truffaut. For the full story, click here.
THE LUTÈCE DIARIES, 18, 2-22-19: HOW I RESCUED 2000 YEARS OF EASTERN & WESTERN PHILOSOPHY FROM A TOILET AT THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS, LEARNED THAT MY SHIT DOESN’T STINK AS BAD AS ALL THAT, AND DIDN’T RESOLVE THE LATEST JEWISH AND MUSLIM QUESTIONS DOGGING FRANCE
Jacques Villegle, “Tension au bas-Meudon,” March 1991. Collage from ripped street posters. Courtesy Galery Vallois. Meudon is also where the sculpture Auguste Rodin once swapped inspirations with Rilke and swapped sentiments with the sculptrice Camille Claudel. (If you want to talk tensions….)
PARIS — Ever think someone is trying to send you signs? From Plato, Eros (by way of Confucius), and Krishna ambushing me in a Luxembourg Garden ‘sanitaire’ to accordionists hounding me across the Left Bank to Albert Camus and Maria Casarès winking at me from a balcony on the rue Vaugirard, from busty marble goddesses having coffee with me at the Delacroix Fountain in the Luxembourg to collaged porn queen sirens in St.-Germain-des-Pres beckoning me to call them on a communication system which no longer exists (the Minitel, France’s Internet avant l’heure), from being snobbed by Germanopretan art gallery interns to welcomed by Ile de France artists on the rue Francis Picabia in Belleville, from trying not to knock knees with a supercalifragilicous architect’s wage slave on the Metro to learning that, echoing a similar tendency in the United States — so I’m not just picking on France here — if a new law passes France will officially no longer distinguish between anti-Zionism an anti-Semitism (which makes me, what, a Jewish anti-Semite?), from trying to decipher “Botoxed” feminine incarnations of Henry Darger’s Vivienne Girls to learning that my shit doesn’t stink too as badly as all that, yesterday like the days that preceded it was as replete with overt signs and puzzling evidence as any I’ve had here this past month and a half. For the full story on the Paris Tribune, click here.
THE LUTÈCE DIARIES, 16, 2-19-19: LOVE ON THE RUN, HEART LIES BLEEDING (UNEDITED AND UNCENSORED VERSION)
First sent out by e-mail, and posted today for the first time. After getting more than half-way through with a re-edit seven months later, I’ve decided to leave this piece in its initial, raw, somewhat over-detailed initial state for the sake of authenticity… and for the record. — PB-I, October 23, 2019
PARIS — So there I was at dusk, heart broken and gums bleeding, teeth throbbing, staggering up the rue des Martyrs towards the Montmartre cemetery and the grave of the man I blamed it all on: Francois Truffaut. For the full story in all its gory an sordid details on the Paris Tribune, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARIES, 15, 2-15-19: (IN FRENCH & ENGLISH) AND IF THREE OUT OF FIVE PARISIENNES WERE ADDICTED TO CRACK? / ET SI 3 SUR 6 PARISIENNES ETAIT ACCRO AU CRACK?; “ON NE PARLE QUE DE LIBERTÉ ET ON SE CONFECTIONNE DES CHAINES DE PLUS EN PLUS”
PARIS — J’ai vu quelque-chose d’effrayant hier soir rue St.-Martin, a l’extérieure d’une café qui s’appelle “Café des jeux.” Il y avait une fille qui regarde dans la vitrine; au moins c’est ca que j’avais pensée mais en fait — et comme trois sur cinq filles que j’ai vu hier soir en marchant de l’Ile St. Louis jusqu’au le pré St.-Gervais en passant par la rue Belleville — elle était branché a son portable.
If three out of five Parisians were addicted to crack, the mairie would do something about it. And yet here three out of five Parisiennes (more the Parisiennes than the Parisiens) have their heads hooked by wires to something in their purses or pockets, and no one’s concerned. So this lady that I saw looking at the games in the window of the “Game Café” on the rue St.-Martin in the Marais finally looked up and dashed through the door… letting it slam in the face of the man behind her — who was supported only by two crutches. He was left to try to nudge the door open himself with his body without losing hold of the crutches. Cette fille a tout a coupe bondi pour entre dans le café, en laissant la porte se ferme brutalement derrière elle sans se souci du type soutenu qu’avec deux béquilles, et qui a donc du essayer a ouverte la porte par/pour lui-même tout en maintiennent ses béquilles. For the full story on the Paris Tribune, click here.
THE LUTÈCE DIARIES, 14, 2-14-19: JULIETTE OF THE SPIRITS
PARIS — My last two months in Paris had not gone as expected. The first surprise was that I did not experience the exhilaration I’d expected when I’d stepped out of the Gare Montparnasse. Montparnasse! How could anyone, above all an American who had always felt the thread going back to Fitzgerald and Hemingway, not be moved? (My second place in Paris, just two months into my stay, was next to the Pasteur Institute in the 15th arrondisement — where the AIDS or SIDA virus had been identified — and thus not too far away from Montparnasse; I’d tried to find the bar on the rue Delambre where Fitzgerald and Hemingway had met, but it had changed hands so many times it was hard to distinguish. I’d settled with “Smoke,” on the other side of the street — not where Scott and Ernest met but, with its pony-tailed Chinese bartender who looked like Wayne Wang, a fitting faux dive in which to smoke my first Cuban, a fact I’d announced to the bartender before correctly guessing that the blues on the juke was “Albert King!”) For the full story on the Paris Tribune, click here.
THE LUTÈCE DIARIES, 13, 2-10-19: FUMBLING TOWARDS ECSTACY
“All the fear has left me now
I’m not frightened any more
It’s my heart that pounds beneath this flesh
It’s my mouth that pushes out this breath
And if I shed a tear I won’t cage it
I won’t fear love
And if I feel a rage I won’t deny it
I won’t fear love.
Companion to our demons
They will dance and we will play
With chairs, candles, and cloth
Making darkness into day.”
— Sarah McLachlan, “Fumbling Towards Ecstacy”
PARIS — Would you like to fly in my beautiful balloon? There’ll be a helluva lot of fumbling, but at least (to paraphrase the Grateful Dead) we’ll enjoy the ride. (To read more about me, who you might be — some indications, not a checklist — and a possible us, click here. On the Paris Tribune.)
THE LUTÈCE DIARIES, 12, 2-12-19: CHILD IS THE FATHER OF THE MAN
Would you play ping-pong with this man? (Photo: Julie Lemberger.)
“You are the light of the world
But if that light’s under a bushel
It’s lost something kind of crucial.”
PARIS — For personal reasons, I’ve resolved this week to get out more and circulate: to try to connect with people, with the esperance that the ame-soeur, the soul-mate, is waiting for me somewhere among them. (If you’re also looking, click here to find out more about me — and the us I’m looking for.) For the full story, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARIES, 11, 2-10-19: (WITH ART BY FOUJITA) RESURRECTIONS — ABOUT LETTING YOUR CHICKENS GO WHEN THEY’VE ALREADY FLOWN THE COOP AND FEEDING YOUR BRAIN AND STOMACH IN PARIS ON LESS THAN 10 EUROS A DAY WHILE RESOLVING YOUR TROUBLED ACADEMIC PAST
Shadows of our Forgotten Chanteuses: One of the hidden retrouvals in the exhibition Foujita: Works of a Lifetime (a paltry selection all the same given the more than 1,000 works created by the Montparno artist) is the 1927 97 x 63 cm oil on canvas portrait of the chanteuse Suzy Solidor, whose throaty alto makes Piaf sound like Chantal Goya by comparison. (In particular check out her renditions of poems by Paul Forte and Jean Cocteau, as well as the port ballad “L’escale.” Laisser la porte ouverte.) Solidor, who fell out of favor after becoming involved with a German officer she met at her Paris cabaret during the Occupation, donated the painting in 1973 to the château-musée Grimaldi in the village of Cagnes-sur-Mer to which she’d retreated, also Renoir- and Bonnard-land. Like the 1929 61 x 50.2 cm oil on canvas “Self-portrait” at right, the Solidor painting is ©Foundation Foujita / Adagp, Paris, 2018. What do these images have to do with the story below? Read on.
“Time is moving on
You better get with it
Before it’s gone.”
— Donald Byrd & Guru, “Stolen Moments”
“I’ve got to stay awake
to meet the rising Sun.”
— Wailing Souls
“Laisser la porte ouverte.”
— Suzy Solidor
PARIS — I’ve just lived six of the most extraordinary days in my increasingly youthifying life. (What Hemingway left out — or perhaps never lived, for if he had, he might not have become an old man by the sea at 61 with no way out save shoving a shotgun in his mouth and blowing his brains out — when he said Lucky the man who has lived in Paris as a young man is the revivifying effect Paris can have on the man of the ‘hardened’ age who thinks love’s already passed him by and instead finds adolescent amour resurrected, even if what Boccaccio called the resurrection of the flesh has become problematic. ((This passage from “The Decameron” has stuck in my mind ever since a Princeton European Literature professor, Theodore Ziolkowski, made a point of reading it out loud to a class of 400 randy freshman in late 1979.))) For the full story on the Paris Tribune, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARIES, 10, 2-7-19: LES SUJETS QUI FÂCHE: THE SCARF THING, THE JEWISH THING, THE IT’S ALL ABOUT ME THING
PARIS — As today has just been declared National Paul Reconciliation Day, I need to unpack something that’s been obscuring my vision and comportment with others for a while and to an unhealthy degree that now menaces my own happiness and ability to play with others. For the full story on the Paris Tribune, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARIES, 9, 1-28-19: SHADOW BOXING WITH ZOLA OR JE BRAVE, J’OSE — AS TEAR GAS FALLS ON THE YELLOW VESTS AT THE PLACE DE LA REPUBLIQUE, I CRY OVER THE GIRL IN THE RED DRESS
“Et O,” 2017. Activated sound oeuvre in situ, words, voice, and composition Emma Dusong. Maison Bernard Collection. Courtesy Galerie Les filles du calvaire.
PARIS — While the intrepid reporters of France Culture radio were over at the Place de la Republique Saturday not getting the story of what 200 “Yellow Vests” convened for a Study-In might have done to provoke the riot police into resorting to tear gas, I was down the street at the tony Filles du Calvaire gallery checking out a more studied manifestation of French culture. Notwithstanding a technical glitch — Mercury was definitely in retrograde Saturday, playing havoc with both electronic and personal paths of communication (I’d end up spending the evening e-mail parlay-vousing with a woman, one of the damsels I’d ‘dragued’ at a vernissage after having three teeth pulled, trying to get me to come out in the rain for a publisher’s party in BFB ((Bum-Fuck-Banlieu)))– which prevented the artist from delivering the potentially most pertinent epiphany promised in her debut solo exhibition / installation, involving the possibility that her delicate fingers might get snapped off at the joints by one of the 12 open school desks arrayed like relics from Truffaut’s “The 400 Blows” on the gallery’s second floor, Emma Dusong provided a schooling on just how vital artistic, contemplated expression can be in our reactive times. For the full story on the Paris Tribune, click here.
THE LUTÈCE DIARIES, 8, 1-25-19: IN THE SHADOWS OF OUR FORGOTTEN ANCESTORS, THE HEART IS A LONELY HUNTER; OR, HOW I PICKED UP TWO FRENCH WOMEN WITHOUT OPENING MY MOUTH (AFTER HAVING 3 TEETH EXTRACTED)
PARIS — So there I was (again), canvas shoulder sack full of provisions, standing in the milieu of the boulevard facing Pere Lachaise, Diplomate in hand until I could feel my lip again so I wouldn’t bite it instead of the pastry, and wondering how I would kill the 50 minutes remaining before the vernissage at the Genie de la Bastille gallery began at 7 (as the teeth extracted were all in the lower front end of my mouth, this time around I wouldn’t just be a blood-sucking critic but a critic unable to speak without revealing his wounds, so I’d decided to see how much I could communicate with just the eyes, particularly if the communiqué was a woman), when I spotted it across the street stretching across the entire long block occupied by the front wall of the cemetery: A four-foot high plaque listing, under a citation from Apollinaire — the Surrealist / Cubist poet who, weakened from a head injury sustained in the war, succumbed to the Spanish flu in 1919 — all the names of “les enfants de Paris” who gave their lives during the Grande Guerre, a.k.a. the Grande Gaspillage (waste). For the full story on the Paris Tribune, click here.
THE LUTÈCE DIARIES, 7, 1-23-19: OUT OF THE BOX IN BELLEVILLE, OR THE DELICATE ART OF EATING DIPLOMATES WITHOUT TAKING THEIR SKINS OFF
Caroline Bouyer, “Magasins Généraux Désaffectés 2.” Engraving. Copyright and courtesy Caroline Bouyer. Click here for more samples of the artist’s work.
PARIS — Careening around the streets and over the canals and rivers of Paris on his way to a heart operation he doesn’t know whether he’ll survive in Cedric Klapisch’s “Paris,” Romain Duris reclines on the seat, gazes up at the sky, and inveighs that most Parisians are so busy kvetching, they don’t realize what they have. (Crossing a bridge to the Quay Tournelle, he passes one who does: an Ivorian immigrant, recently arrived after a perilous ocean crossing as also captured in the film, busy capturing Notre-Dame with his cell phone.) It’s this sense of emerveillement that I hope to transmit to these dispatches and this site, even if I’m not lucky enough to have Juliette Binoche as a sister nor hundreds of women ogling my svelte form as I do my number at the Moulin Rouge, as they do Duris’s before he almost dances his heart out. For the full story on the Paris Tribune, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARIES, 6, 1-15-19: WHAT’S WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE? AT THE POMPIDOU, IT’S A MAN’S, MAN’S WORLD, BABY
Among the 300+ oeuvres featured in the exhibition “Cubisme,” running at the Centre Pompidou in Paris through February 25 is, above, Paul Cézanne, “Portrait of Ambroise Vollard,” 1899. Oil on canvas, 101 x 81 cm. Petit Palais, Musee des beaux-arts de la Ville de Paris, Paris. Copyright Petit Palais/Roger-Viollet.
PARIS — It won’t come as any surprise to many of you that, curation-wise, the Centre Pompidou — or Beaubourg, as the locals call it — is one sexist institution. But the mammoth advertising poster — in English, with no apparent translation large enough to read — that confronted me on the Boulevard St.-Germain the other night as I was finishing up a gallery run was an open invitation for a Gorilla Girls reunion or for Oksana Shachko to come back to life and make up with the rest of the Femen for one last unified demonstration. For the full story; click here.
LUTÈCE DIARIES, 5, 1-21-19: SOMBER TIMES AT ARIANE MNOUCHKINE’S THEATRE DU SOLEIL — ROBERT LEPAGE’S “KANATA” OR WHY I WON’T REVIEW VICTIM ART WITHOUT THE VICTIMS
PARIS — I was working as a feature writer for the Anchorage Daily News (a job I’d accepted after watching too many episodes of Northern Exposure; it wasn’t until after arriving in Alaska that I learned the t.v. series was shot in Washington State) when I decided I was going to be the first to write about AIDS among Native Alaskans living in “the Bush.” For the full story, click here.
LUTÈCE DIARIES, 4, 1-18-19: DIARY OF A DISABUSED CRITIC / JOURNAL D’UN CRITIQUE DÉSABUSÉ OR WHY I STOOD UP /POUR QUOI J’AI POSÉ UN LAPIN À AGNES VARDA & SANDRINE BONNAIRE
Urban pastorale: A scene from Robert Siodmak’s and Edgar G. Ulmer’s 1930 silent film “People on Sunday,” recently restored and playing this afternoon at the Cinematheque Française as part of its retrospective of the films of Billy Wilder, who wrote the screenplay.
PARIS — So there I was at the hour of the crepuscule Wednesday, standing on a bridge linking the Ile de Cité to the Left Bank and contemplating the nascent twilight reflected on the rippling waves of the Seine, when I realized that the ping-pong table in the sculpture garden above the Tino Rossi tango plaza where two kids were battling each other and the bracing gusts of freezing wind was much more compelling than the date with Agnes Varda and Sandrine Bonnaire that awaited me at the Cinematheque Française further down the river. Click here for the full story.
LUTÈCE DIARIES, 3, 1-16-19: (ILLUSTRATED) TRANS TINTIN ON RUE MONTORGUEIL, SUPERMAN IN ST.-GERMAIN DES PRÈS, SHOAH PUPPETS ON MOUFFETARD — THE JOURNAL OF A BLOOD-SUCKING CRITIC
Joseph, “No time to lose (Superman),” 2018. Acrylic, collage, and resin on wood. 110 x 70 cm. Courtesy Gallery Roy Sfeir, 6 rue de Seine, Paris.
PARIS — Only a nut for culture and for a Paris retrouvé to which he’d re-taken (“First we’ll take Manhattan, then we’ll take Paris” — Leonard Cohen via Jennifer Warnes, tweaked) like the proverbial canard to water would think of strolling from the Grands Boulevards to the Seine in sub-freezing climes, traversing the most luminous river in the world — they say the light comes from all the souls that have found their final solace in her fathomless depths and all the hearts that have fused on her bridges, boats, and benches (“I started that” — Cary Grant to Audrey Hepburn in Stanley Donen’s “Charade,” pointing to the lovers necking on the quays from the deck of a bateau mouche) — and then hop-scotching from several openings in the gallery grotto of Saint-Germain-des-Près to the heights of the Latin Quarter to mouffe tard (work late) on the rue Mouffetard with a puppet hoarder of Holocaust detritus while surrounded by 50 hushed school-children, right after having three teeth extracted. And did I mention that I forgot the Ibuprofen, which I told myself would make me all the more able to empathize with the Shoah victims (later to have their fillings extracted after being gassed), but which only left me to grit the hemoglobin-soaked bandage over my gums and become the living embodiment of the blood-sucking critic? Click here for the full story.
THE LUTÈCE DIARIES, 2, 1-11-19: ILS SONT TOUS LES ENFANTS DE LA REPUBLIQUE; THE JEWISH BOOK OF THE DEAD; PARIS SURVIVAL SECRETS
PARIS — A DJ I used to know, commenting on one of my elliptical returns to San Francisco from inside the booth of the busy Kennel Club on Divisadero on World Beat night, once explained, “It’s the spirit of the Indian god of Tamalpais. It makes sure you always return to the source.” Tamalpais has nothing on Sigmund Freud, the street named after whom serves as a kind of Rubicon between the prè St.-Gervais ‘burb where I’ve found impeccable digs (thank you, CD and EA) and the Eastern quartiers of Paris, and which somehow found a way Tuesday to steer me away from the multi-ethnic Belleville neighborhood I was aiming for — it reminds me of SF’s Mission District, with Muslims and Jews, Africans and Asians, BoBos and genuine Bohemians, and succulent pork brioches from Wei Zu province and black dates from the Algerian Bled harmoniously (and deliciously) existing side by side — to Lubavitcher central. Click here to read the full story.
THE LUTÈCE DIARIES, ONE, 1-18-19: PARIS, QUELQUES CHOSES QUE JE SAIS SUR ELLE (PARIS, A FEW THINGS I KNOW ABOUT HER)
PARIS — The dirt-encrusted brown calves and bare feet slowly wriggling up out of the mound of aromatic detritus behind the green fences overlooking the debut of the Canal St.-Martin and the irritation in my throat suggested that if mayor Anne Hidalgo has good intentions, pollution and living conditions — at least for the poor and wretched in the latter case — may have deteriorated since my last sojourn here in 2016. N’empeche que there was still Sarah Bernhardt to welcome me at Austerlitz. Click here to read the full story.