Showing posts with label RER. Show all posts
Showing posts with label RER. Show all posts

Saturday, 18 November 2023

1994 Paris

26.4.94

Public architecture begins in the Charles de Gaulle Airport – a triumph of form over function (ish), with its weird subterranean links to the satellites and the interlocking glass tubes to luggage retrieval.  Back in the RER. Depressingly, the same ads as a year ago.  Building works in the station.

Back in the Hotel Ares – refurbished, and with rather nicer staff.  The elevated metro here has been repainted.  Nice that feeling of returning, of recognising, and of spotting differences.  Obviously architecture has much to do with this.

To “Le Suffren”, of course, and even here, there’ve been changes – new chairs, new interior – same wonderful dédaigneux waiters, though.  Prices seem higher – perhaps we’re poorer.  Our annual visite here provides a useful index to how things are going.  But what a lovely city nonetheless – the lights, the bloody Gauloises-smoking people in their outrageous shirts and jackets…

27.4.94  The Louvre

Nice inverted pyramid – volumes – stunning use of old foundations – the scale and breadth.  To one of the main sculpture galleries – so light, so successful.  The white marble.  Pretty impressive.  Interesting that the older part of the Louvre is looking distinctly ropey.  

To Galeries Lafayette for fine, filling lunch (72 Francs), then to Galerie de la Musique (Rue Réaumur) where I find an expensive book on French music and musicians.  Then café, then to Printemps, back to hotel – Paris, as ever, is exhausting, but pleasantly so.

28.4.94  Grand Palais

Last night re-found the fine restaurant near Liceo ItalianoLa Fontaine de Mars.  Lovely weather now – pale blue sky, cool breeze.  Grass growing greenly before us.

Rather a failed morning: both Petit Palais and Grand Palais are extra to our tourist tickets, and expensive.  To FNAC – nice and cool, but without the mad excitement of London.  Then try to see Brassaï – also extra.  Metro to hotel – to find a bottle of champagne from the wise hotel manager (he recognised us).  Back in the Grand Palais (yo! Press card).  Origine de l’Impressionisme.  Curious pic by Bazille: atelier with pianist in the corner – new twist on pianist in a brothel.  The massive pix of Monet and Manet – new to me, particularly attractive.  One – “Marine: orange” has precisely the colours and contrast of sea we saw at the beach near Merida.

29.4.94

Back in the serene, majestic Louvre.  The other sculpture court.  Bosio: amazing effect of weather on bronze in his Hercules fighting Acheloos.  Lovely serpent.  Fine Mesopotamian collection – that sense of how much was achieved 4000 years ago.  To the restaurant – surprisingly good, and well executed. Cool here, even though there is ravishing sun outside.

To Denfert-Rochereau – for “Prospero’s Books” (ha!).  After lunch at the Louvre (a really happening place) to Île de la Cité for nice sit in the sun (very warm today), then to here.  The open air cafés – or rather the tables on the street – a part of the French love of la vie en publique.  Small arts cinema (30 Francs/seat), playing “Nozze di Figaro” – too low/slowly – of a kind almost extinct in UK.  A nation of cinephiles.

To the Café du Rendez-vous 
Denfert-Rochereau, typical French roadside café .  Good caffe (I’ve been spoilt by Italy for most) and crepes.  Classic facade opposite, six storeys, white wall of sun, trees breaking into leaf. Impressionism eat your heart out.

30.4.94 Tour Eiffel

Sunny but cool. Slightly hazy.  Waiting for the third étage lift.  Of course, the Eiffel Tower is pure architecture – without form or function, pure third dimension – which is the defining characteristic of architecture.  From the top: again, striking how tall French buildings are – not skyscrapers, but blocks of flats – the characteristic grey roofs.  Looking towards Bois de Boulogne.  More than any other city I know, Paris is a city of lines – Haussmann, Mitterrand et al.

Also very noticeable is that the flats – the great blocks everywhere – have very strong horizontal and vertical lines: everything is like a grid.  Due in part to the absence of detached houses or low maisonettes that might change the rhythm.  The overall effect is very like a synthetic cubist pic: an image full of clashing lines that hover and blur.  Also: there are very few office blocks here – mostly towards the periphery.  This is a city for living.  Down on the first 
étage – feels very low and open.  Descending, very noticeable the diagonals of struts – a huge Piranesian nightmare.  

To the Institut du Monde Arabe.  Rather fine building.  To the café on the top – view from the roof over the Seine.  Nice artichoke.  Fascinated by the regulation system for the lighting: photoelectric cells control hydraulic pumps that move rotating plates, opening and closing apertures.  I’ve yet to see it in action: lots of Arabic gutturals around.

To the Syrian exhibition (last day today).  Generally disappointing, but a nice feel of tens of empires – Hittites, Hattites, Akkadians etc hurtling together, contesting this parcel of fertile land, inventing the city, writing…

Now drinking thé à la menthe on the terrace.  Very hot, very nice.  Next to us, three ladies of a certain age discuss computers remarkably sensibly.

On the Bateau-Mouches – an eternal cadence in six languages.
The smell in the Metro, pinned down: burnt wood…

1.5.94

Everything closed, of course.  Blue sky, but slight chill in the air.  Outside Saint-Roch, away form the bloody marchers.  To Le Marché aux Puces, Porte de Clignancourt.  A huge modern-day souk.  Wonderful.

2.5.94

La Samaritaine.  Fine view, good coffee.  A walk from the waxworks museum through some wonderful galleries, Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois, to here.  So much to see in Paris, I feel.  Ashamed for London – whether justifiably or not is hard to say.

Lunch in Galeries Lafayette.  Walk down to La Madeleine – first time I’ve seen it: large, classical, covered in scaffolding.  Towards Boullée’s only surviving construction in Paris.  To 16, rue de la Ville l'Évêque – very strange, a bank now, with a glass portico, through which we can see Boullée’s sad remains.  Now crushed between two dull concrete slabs.  Seems to be the dining room of the bank now. Nice swags in the Corinthian columns’ eyes.  Corinthian passing to Doric. Sad.  Fine freizes in the portico, two sphinxes on the six steps.

Inside the Madeleine – much grander than I expected.  So many columns and arches and domes.  Light falls from the ceiling as if liquid.  A sea of open-backed raffia-seat chairs, surprisingly delicate, giving a refined ripple through the space.  Outrageous chandeliers like golden vines and creepers.

Outside the Madeleine, to a café behind it (or the restauration).  Ridiculously noisy, but hell, it’s the principle that counts.  

3.5.94  Carrefour Buci

Very characteristic quarter.  Sitting in the warm sun.  Clear blue sky.  Nice that though we leave at 5.30pm this evening we can enjoy Paris in this relaxed way.  Very noticeable how pleasant just walking in Paris is (from Le Bon Marché to here).  Cf. Köln or Stuttgart – dead boring, depressing even.  Here just being – 
L’être – basta.

To Loubnane, Rue Galande, for mezedes.  The parking here:  if there is two metres of road a junction, this is enough for a BMW.  Rich Turkish coffee – reminds me of Egypt.

Returning to UK, the contrast with France is clear: fluffy explosions of trees everywhere below us.  And on the tube bringing us in, greenery everywhere.  London is organic, Paris is planned and man-made.  Also noticeable how the Underground sprawls out into the suburbs – weed-like, and asymmetrically.  Le Métro is more dense and orderly, as strictly within the Périphérique – a name that says it all.

Monday, 24 October 2022

1991 Paris

29.6.91 Pyramid, Musée du Louvre

Well, I finally made it here.  Humbling, totally humbling.  The French really do have the arts sorted out.  London is an embarrassment in comparison.  This entrance hall is inspired.  So light, so logical.  A pyramid of sky and clouds.  Almost a refutation of an Egyptian pyramid – which heavy and dark: this is nothing but light.  And we are inside: it is pure volume.  John would not like it.  Nor the display of Egyptian antiquities amidst all the gilt Rococo splendour.  In fact, generally, the Louvre itself has too strong a personality, whereas the pyramid is suitably neutral.  Even the design of the Louvre is too French – long, long galleries.  Light, shining marble here.  Even with the increasing crowds, there's a feeling of space and air – they tend to stay around the outside.  A brilliant device for prams/wheelchairs: a cylinder rising and falling – an open lift.

Another gob-smacking experience: Jeu de Paume.  Transfigured.  Satie tinkles in the background; the walls a fierce white, the floors a lovely warm, bleached wood parquetry.  On the walls explosions of energy and colour: Jean Dubuffet at the west end, top floor, north wall, 36 pix – a riot of gore, jagged edges, slashes.  Mon dieu, paris est fait pour moi. Je commence à penser en français tout le temps... Je me sens presque français...

Thereafter, a long(-ish) walk to the Grand Palais, and the Seurat exhibition.  Disappointing – in that most of the "big" pix weren't there.  But once again, Seurat's mastery as a draughtsman is very clear – right from the first academic studies.  Lunch there, cheap, unspecial.  I walk to Musée Rodin in another first.  Not as I imagine: more like the Belvedere in Vienna than the dark town house I expected.  But very impressive.  You can see how this terrible old git loved the human form.  Roomful and roomful of it.  And anybody who can produce hands – especially "Le Secret" – as he can, has got to be good.  Lovely studies for the Balzac.  I sit in the garden, the sun beating down.  At the entrance to the Musée was a beautiful young woman – a model – being photographed.  

To the Musée d'Orsay.  Once again, the immediate impact is one of shame: why can't we rise to challenges like this?  Imagine Battersea Power Station turned into a huge gallery…  This place is so cool – in both senses.  Such a brilliant conceit to have a museum inside the railway hall.  Ah well, voyons.

The ground floor is a rather endearing hodge-podge of nineteenth-century stuff.  The first floor is rather tiresome second team, and at the top, under the natural light, the Impressionists.  [One thing on the ground floor: a model of the streets around Opéra Garnier – with glass over it which you could walk on.  Even though others did – and I did – I felt strangely unsafe as if tip-toeing across frozen ice.] Rather nice wicker-work chairs for viewing the pix – strangely civilised.  Typically French: by the toilets, above the café, there is a computerised system – a touch keyboard, million-pixel screen with (all/most of) the works…

By the RER to Gare d'Austerlitz.  Through the Jardin des Plantes – very French, very formal.  Glorious sunshine.  To the greenhouse – that magic smell, hotter than outside, damper.  Then to the mosque, where I sit now in a polygonal central courtyard, trees providing shade.  I have just acquired a steaming hot mint tea – sweet, needless to say.  But nice.  What can I say about this place – Paris – except that I must live here…

Well, what larks: 2.45am, Boulevard St Michel, just by the bridge, tobacco smoke wafting over me, but strangely I don't care.  It seems right for Paris, the land of the eternal Gauloise.  Anyway, to recap first.  After the Musée d'O (comme on dit), by RER to [café crème here is 40 Francs – is this a record…?  But what did I expect…?] Place de la Bastille, to gawp at the new opera.  'Orrible, no sensitivity at all – and already graffiti on its stone facing.  Then by Métro to Les Halles, where after long wanderings, a descend into the depths to FNAC.  Where, after more wanderings, I find [moon gibbous tonight – this place is La Périgourdine – live music, bluesy guitar, voice and piano stuff] I find one Racine play (Andromaque) – which has a certain resonance as I remember – the Gainsbourg pour Gainsbourg plus some Yves Montand with, ludicrously enough, "La Bicyclette", which I heard on France Inter, and was gob-smacked thereby.  Back to the hotel, utterly knackered.

Where I meet the others from work, and feel, partly out of duty, but also, je l'admets, a desire to be with a group on a Saturday night, the archetypal time of being out, of "socialising".  We discuss ad infinitum what to do, but by some miracle find a good restaurant – part of the Flo chain, directly opposite the Gare du Nord, part of the Hôtel du Nord.  We share a Fruits du Mer – well, as it happens, I end up with 20 (sic) oysters – I hope they were OK – then have capitaine – a type of white fish.  Bright, smoky, bustling, very French.

Yet more discussions.  Unable to find a taxi, some of us begin walking to the Seine, others hang about at the hotel. I lead the walkers.  Time around 1am, Paris bustling.  We find ourselves in the Rue Saint-Denis – with the ladies of the night, some quite young and attractive, many black, some none of these – sad, even – especially – on a beautiful night like this, around 19°
C.  One thing in Paris is the blatant porn everywhere – even in ads for yoghurt, I mean… ["Take 5" being played – a versatile band with sax and drums too now…]

I write now (at around 4.30am) with barely any light, sitting opposite the east end of Notre-Dame – which looks like some huge monster or a complex life-support system.  Dawn is definitely coming, with the north-east sky lightening.  Below me, two people sit on the quai; two tiny red fireflies in their hands…. The mood has definitely changed from night to morning, that most magical moment of the diurnal round, that invisible pivot.  Worth waiting up for.  Below me, too, the water like glass, the bridges reflected to perfection.  The first dog starts barking with a racking smoker's cough.

30.6.91

I decide two hours' sleep are better than none, waking at 8.30am.  Not feeling too bad – at Gambetta station: after Père Lachaise Cemetery.  Must be great in winter with mists and everything.  It looked very Greek to me.  Found Proust's tomb, very simple black polished stone.  Today is going to be rather unsatisfactory, I fear, with various deadlines – getting out of room, and to airport etc.

To Jeu de Paume again, for a pleasant lunch of taramasalata, then round the show after reading the intro.  I am just so gobsmacked by all this.  The more I look and learn about this geezer, the more I'm impressed.  Gave up business at 41 to be an artist.  Remained outside the establishment.  What works.  They look so energetic, so full of life – like coiled springs of DNA.  And yet there is a unity of form, and even a humanity amidst this matter.  Really, it is unique in 20th century art.

Upstairs, with the late works – which are suitably Beethovenian in their paring down, in their "spirituality".  Even more so in the very last room of all – on a black ground, like space, the universe, these last deep calligrammes, inspired doodles of noumena (yeah, well...)


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