Moody's Black Notebook Travels: paris

Showing posts with label paris. Show all posts

Tuesday 21 November 2023

1995 Paris

8.3.95

Cinema Europa Pantheon – Rue Victor-Cousin 13. To see “Farinelli” – not open in London. Ah, Paris. Very arty cinema. The seats all sponsored – all Left Bank do-gooders, doubtless. The film, well, nice idea, terrible structure. For me, its main failing was to give no idea of the overmastering power of the castrato’s voice: the one thing that drove everyone nuts. The sound quite plausible.

9.3.95

Cité de la Musique – which doesn’t exist, and what does exist isn’t open. Strange location, on the edge of things, surrounded by 19th century buildings, glass and steel à la Crystal Palace and the rest.

Bad night – something dodgy inside wanting to come out. Fine sunny day, cold.

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1993 Paris

13.4.93

Théâtre des Bouffes du Nord – finally. Great interior, rather like Almeida Theatre and then some. Crumbling, red/ochre plaster on walls, the palimpsest of stucco, the dubious pillars holding it up. “L’Homme Qui” – Sacks, of course. Nice café next door, chaotique ticket sales at the contrôle. Managed to phone and pre-book. Useful habit this is getting to be. Above, a fine, obscured oval. The stage a deep, high space behind the proscenium. Must be fun working here.

This morning to FNAC, near Wagram – but Matisse advance tickets sold out, alas. Have to queue. Prices of CDs outrageous - £17 to £20. Book selection disappointing too. To Gare/Musée d'Orsay– we queued for 20 minutes – tiresome. As is the arrangement of galleries, it has to be said. I think the spell of Musée d'Orsay has been broken for me – I love the jeu d’esprit of using a station – but after that the details don’t repay constant visits. Perhaps this is one consequence of having seen London through the proverbial fresh eyes of some guests last weekend – and really liking it. It looked remarkably clean, well-ordered and often free (museums etc.) Well done, UK.

Very Almeida sort of sound here.

14.4.93

Pompidou Centre. Two hours queuing to get in here, and I realise that this, too, is all facade: the toilets by the café terrible. Food OK – unlike the Louvre, whose café is an insult. Is this the terrible secret of Paris?

Huge queues still, will take hours to clear. Why didn’t this show come to London? Shame.

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Monday 6 February 2023

2023 Paris

4.2.23

Sitting in the Bastille Opera, watching Tristan und Isolde – on a TV screen… We got here early, at just after 6pm, since the performance was starting at 7pm. Except it wasn’t – it started at the crazy time of 6pm. And they weren’t letting in anyone until the interval…

I seem cursed with Tristan: the first (and only) time I saw it at the Royal Opera House, Jon Vickers was Tristan. Brilliant...except that before the start of the 3rd act, he decided he had a sore throat, and wasn’t going to sing any further. One man in the audience cried out “money back” after the announcement, and before we went straight to the Liebestod, with a stand-in (lie-in) sprawled on the ground as Isolde sang over him.

Tonight’s performance was the main reason for this quick visit to Paris, but fortunately we’ve done much else besides. Arriving with the super-convenient Eurostar – one of my favourite ways to travel – Thursday afternoon, we walked around the Bastille area, where our rented flat was located. I don’t know this part too well, so it was good to see this different slice of Paris. Lots of fine sandstone buildings, broad boulevards with high apartments on either side – often six storeys high.

On Friday, to the Musée national des arts asiatiques Guimet. Shockingly, this is the first time I’d been here. Clearly, a really fine collection, with some masterpieces from various Asian cultures. But a bit of a labyrinth – I found it hard to create any kind of thread moving through it. We’d come partly for the special exhibition of Afghan art. Which turned out to be fabrics. Nice enough, but nothing special. Some of the videos in the exhibition were – because of the stunning landscapes of Band-e-Amir (I think, searching for them afterwards online), used as backgrounds. This was reinforced when, on the way out, we discovered another Afghan exhibition – about French archaeological excavations there. Again, some stunning pix of glinting azure tiles and towers, including the amazing Minaret of Jam. Pity that it’s unlikely I’ll ever get to see them first-hand.

In the afternoon, to the Musée de Cluny. Another one that I’d somehow failed to visit before. To be fair, this was closed for restoration the times I did try. Ultimately, I found the relentless medieval art a little oppressive and – dare I say it? - boring. Some stuff not bad, but really so circumscribed in its range.

In the evening, a meal with friends in a Peruvian restaurant near Bastille. Interesting flavours, but painfully small portions – and hideously expensive. The sum involved was particularly obscene because nearby our flat there is a homeless bloke that we have to pass every day. The contrast between the meal and the man was painful.

Today, to Place des Vosges, and Victor Hugo’s house. Or rather a reconstruction of it. Place des Vosges has always been one of my favourite spots in the city – so balanced, civilised, so French. Hugo’s house had plenty of good stuff. I was struck by a painting of Hugo and his son. Particularly the tight grip that Hugo had of his son, as if preventing him from fleeing. Very weird, disturbing.

The along to Musée Cognacq-Jay, concentrating on art of the eighteenth century – lot of young ladies with fashionable grey hair, and carelessly-exposed bosoms. Soft porn for aristocrats. Best pix were two Canalettos, one that I didn’t recognise, of the canal of Santa Chiara, with unusual blind brick walls – not something you see much of in Venice.

Then later to here, where I now sit watching a rather static production of Tristan und Isolde – the singers sitting on a bench, while above them are projected “relevant” images – of a stormy sea that could be Cornwall, and also a man and a woman – Tristan and Isolde, I presume – taking their clothes off – all of them. Afterwards, lots of water splashing around, so I supposed this was some kind of ritual cleansing. As far as I can tell from the tinny sound of the TV, tonight's singers are quite good. I’ll be interested to hear them in the flesh when they deign to let us in…

Despite this little mishap, it’s always good to be back in Paris – and it’s very much “back. It’s the only city that feels the equivalent of London – like some parallel world instantiation – different in details, but the same overall. Been using the metro extensively – so much cheaper than the Tube, and more convenient in that the stations are closer together. But it is, I have to concede, dirtier and stinkier than London’s… Lots of cyclists here thanks to the Green mayor, Anne Hidalgo. French drivers still bonkers.

I have noticed – too late – that there an exhibition of Uzbek art at the Louvre, but I don’t think we’ll be able to fit it in before we go back tomorrow. Still, saw plenty last year. I hope that I make it back to the region in the summer as planned. I’m a bit concerned that we have learned nothing from Covid, and are about to go through a bird flu pandemic – it already seems to be jumping between species, and yet it isn’t even on governments’ radar. We shall see…

5.2.23

This Eurostar lounge in Gare du Nord always feels like a bridgehead of the UK – probably because it only goes to London, and thus, in some sense, is already part of it...

A gentle morning with friends in the 19th, including a walk around Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. Unusual because of its extremely steep gradients – and because it is completely artificial, built in a stone quarry (hence the gradients). Reminds me that this is one big difference with London, which has hundreds of parks, big and small, whereas Paris has far fewer in the centre.

Last night was, well, interesting. After waiting an hour and a half in the bar area, we were allowed in, for Act II of the opera. Which basically consists of Tristan and Isolde saying “I love you” for an hour, followed by King Mark saying “I’m really sad you betrayed me” to Tristan, followed by ten seconds of Tristan running on to Melot’s sword (bizarrely, a couple of outstretched fingers in this production…).

After the second interval, I finally heard Act III of Tristan und Isolde live – undoubtedly my favourite bit. The opening chords, deep in the bass – Bb minor, with an added G resolving upwards – followed by violins climbing up and up into the musical stratosphere – get me every time. But hearing it live is something else: no hi-fi can quite capture the low graininess of the opening chord on the strings, or the soaring, glittering ascent of the violins.

After that, the wonderfully plangent cor anglais – always makes me think of Sibelius’ “Swan of Tuonela”, doubtless inspired by Tristan and the sounds of Act III's opening. Then we have Tristan dying for an hour, followed by the big tune – “Mild und leise” in which Isolde dies slightly more quickly. The staging again very static, the projected images again involving lots of water, culminating in a reasonable transfiguration and ascension with the upward stream of drops. The end – audience goes mad in the annoying way they do. We leave. To be fair, the voices were pretty good – especially Isolde and Kurwenal. Tristan was good too, but the effect rather spoilt by his bantam-like body – all belly and no legs – which was embarrassing when supine, which he was for most of Act III.

But opera is such a crazy experience anyway – and Wagner even more so. Thousands of people sit almost motionless for four hours, watching this improbable Tristan and slightly more probable Isolde, singing this lush version of an old tale. In many way, this incredible coming-together – of ancient Celtic, romantic German and contemporary Parisian – was the most touching aspect of the evening. It underlined to me why the Musée Guimet and the Musée de Cluny had left me cold: they lacked this incredible complexity and richness. Similarly, the Canalettos in the Musée Cognacq-Jay spoke to me because they were Venice and “Walks with Lorenzetti” and all that these imply and touch on for my life.

This Paris trip – perhaps my tenth – re-affirms how important the central points of European culture are for me, and how familiar they feel when I encounter them. And for that I am grateful…

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Sunday 30 October 2022

1992 Paris

11.1.92 Pompidou Centre

Well, here we are again. What a city; what a day. First, basic info: arrived Thursday evening, Friday at Confortec because of my new Confortique contacts. Yesterday a washout (= work). Today I'm taking off. Up early for a walk in the grey coldish (= good) dawn. Through Les Halles, through Marais, to Place des Vosges. First time in Place des Vosges – stunning. Typical French obsession with order and regularity. Lovely colonnades, very intimate in feel – perhaps because of the low roofs. To Hugo's house – bare inside, mostly pix.

From Bastille to Louvre (I have a Paris five-day pass). To Comédie-Française, where I buy a ticket for "Iphigénie" tomorrow at 8.30pm. I already have a ticket for 6.30pm tonight: "Charlus", based on the man himself. My French is probably good enough to cope. Then to Denon wing, a small exhibition of Lully stuff, OK. Up to Musée d'Art Moderne. Nice Matisse, rest rather ropey. To Palais de Tokyo – huge photo exhibition on sculpture. Quite interesting, if exhausting.

Then to here, Beaubourg. Which I have not been to for probably 15 years. Much better than I remember it. Busy, bustling, lots to see. But before I walk around, a few important things. This place (Paris) is so wonderful that I feel I will have to do something really corny: live here for a few months – to write "Doing The Business" (DTB). It all fits. DTB is emotionally Racine-based. I bought Iphigénie today and had the idea of incorporating it and four other Racines = 25 acts in DTB (Iphigénie - the choice about whether to fire someone, Phèdre – the editor and her cub reporter).

Anyway, it looks plausible living here for, say, three months – allow £3/4000 for it, should be possible. End of this year might be good timing, not too many tourists etc. Sounds good to me...It is becoming clear to me that Glanglish II, III etc will follow occasionally. My main task is DTB etc. The other thing is Paris is probably the best place to learn Arabic for a trip in 1993. Also (here, for example) there seems to be facilities, libraries etc. Provided Is till have my NUJ card, Paris is cheap – especially cinema (I'm tempted by Dingo…)

But to the pix. First, though: note, there was a real competitive market in plays in seventeenth-century France - people producing spoilers etc (see Racine book). Exactly like magazines, exactly like business… Racine lost too… But "A comedy".

Why are the analytic cubist pix nearly monochrome: because colour would destroy the planes = the whole point. I want to produce black and white pix like these synthetic cubist works. Purest form of their art. Brilliant stuff – especially the Picasso – I must read the new biography. Up now in the cafe. Last time I was here it was really tacky. Not bad now – full of young trendies – far younger than me… Grey day out there. Paris still at its best.

I am now in a Japanese restaurant about ten yards from my hotel – for many reasons perhaps: because I'm pretty sure that I ate here some five of six years ago. Though it seems to have changed menus since then. Full of japs though...probably a good sign.

Certainly was. Absolutely yummy – and very cheap (about £5) for tea, soup, salad and huge rice and chicken "omelette" thing. Hearing Japanese spoken: makes me want to learn it. When, though? And how? I wonder if there are any bursaries for writers…?

"Charlus" was all that I could have wished. I understood about half and remembered nearly all of that. The narrator was good – not quite feeble enough; Charlus was, well, Charlus to a T. Ultimately quite moving too, the loneliness despite/because of all his power and accomplishments. Hm. Intimate theatre, below the main one.
[DTB: "can't get this mag launched until you fire him" – cf. Iphigenie…]

12.1.92 Musée Picasso

Here again again. Everything I wanted. Analytic cubism the peak for me, really – so intelligent. Practically all of his pix have a woman in it. As if trying to understand them by re-stating the problem. Also minotaurs – at the heart of the labyrinth – Daedalus, patron saint of the new… (and Theseus in Phèdre…). Some thoughts on beauty – towards a Darwinian Aesthetic. Perhaps beauty is simplicity – compare "elegant" theorems in maths. Even in apparent complexity – a Bach fugue - you seek harmony = simplicity, all parts being of the whole. Also: the power of analogy. Analogy is about finding a structure pre-existing in the brain => saves brain cells – saves new learning. Similarly perhaps beauty is about minimisation of brain cells: a smooth "simple" curve is more easily stored than a jagged one => feels nice, because the brain finds it easier to grasp. Well, it's a start…

Back in the Japanese restaurant – weak, yeah, but saves faffing before the Racine (very Noh almost…? Nearest equivalent…) - also I have a strange lingering qualm about this trip – after all, I done little real work – very little today – and I've gained so much otherwise. After Picasso, to the other side of Paris: La Défense finally. Emerging from the RER, to be greeted by this huge primitive/modern arch, climb the great tsunami of steps – immediately made me think of Boullée. Up to the roof – crazy lift. Dull exhibition up there, crazy too – and very modern. Almost like a space ship – very flash, very French – compare the World Trade Centre – dull, commercial – and in the UK, nothing equivalent. The sheer effrontery of the French planning.

To Iphigénie, Comédie-Française. Round corner for a quick cafe crème before, then unable to find toilets – and no break. Comédie-Française sumptuous, acoustics not too good (I was on 4me). Very lush inside. Acting good: Iphigénie and Achille particularly so. Even with the lousy acoustics I could understand most of it: am I there?

NB: DTB – boyfriend is nearly killed in a car crash in Brighton (cf. Hippolyte) – driving because miserable, because neglected.

13.1.92

Strange day – work, first – consuming microcomputer magazines, then out to RBP France to convince them to launch Windows User...hard work, but at least not completely rejected. Strangely torn today… I felt I was living a Racine play – that flip-flop, that 0/1 of the binary digit, yes/no, the indecision. How so we decide (compare most important job of boss in DTB: to be decisive – because anything can be justified, any story sold – but not a changing one.)

Then for a long walk around Place des Vosges – which I really like. Most closed. Across to the Île Saint-Louis – which looks very touristy without the touristy (paradoxical, moi?). Saw place – studio – for rent there: £100 a week...nothing… I must come here – I could live here for years at that rate. Walking, walking – and back to here, which is a place I passed just south of Place des Vosges. Whereas everywhere else just felt wrong, this place, though grubby, felt right. Turns out to have Basque specialities...we shall see.

I was overcome by an intense fatigue when talking to the RBP bloke – I really don't care. Only a sense of duty – and a rather interesting possibility – kept me going. Vegetable soup no "tres chaud". One thing: somebody told me yesterday of a Linguatheque at the Pompidou Centre – practically every language in the lab...could be convenient. ["Truc" – the word on everyone's lips.] Soup – simple, good, hot, copious. Paris, obviously, is a walker's city. Perfect for the poor. It is also the quintessential city of exile. Perfect for me….

Tuna à la basquaise– everything I could have hoped. Délicieux. A long, narrow room, bare-ish walls, except for the bullfighting posters – and on the ceiling. Music – French – in the background. Only me except for two ladies (young) who seem to be friends of the patron. Life is good (could this be the half litre of win speaking…?) [Garbure – the soup]. On the wall, weird ball catcher – some Basque game, clearly. I must go there… Basque cake to follow – very strange, very nice. This, with plums inside. Yummy.

Interesting effect in the Métro: sitting opposite two women on the other track, I can almost hear what they are saying – à la St Paul's Whispering Gallery...

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2023 Paris

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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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