Today was the opening of Paris Photo, an annual event, that just like FIAC and the Biennial, draws the best galleries from across the globe. The nice thing about this art show is that photos are relatively affordable investments on the international art scene, so the crowd is younger and more light-hearted, making for a more fun, relaxed event.

iconic work by Irving Penn

Photography as a fine art is a fairly difficult concept because of the negatives. For every photo taken, there may be only one print made, or 100,000. Unlike bronzes or lithographs, the production is not controlled, a photographer, galleriest, or any one with access to the negatives can make as many prints as s/he likes and still call them originals. Photos may be printed in a variety of sizes, or at a wide range of time periods and some are developed long after the photographer has gone. Which explains the more accessible prices.

Another complication is more intellectual and relates to modern technology. At what point is a photo no longer a photo, but an illustration or a piece of multi-media? And does the fact that an image has been copied a million times into postcards and Hallmark calendars, add to its value, or deplete it? And what about the accessibility of the process? When we look at most art forms, we may say to ourselves, or the person next to us, “I could do that” while it is rarely true. With contemporary photography, the odds are on your side. Finally, is there, or should there be a significant difference in the value of photos shot as fine art and commercial photography?

All this was filtering through my mind as I attended the opening of the show. And then I started looking at the pictures and other thoughts started popping up, thoughts like; Why are photographers so obsessed with boobs? What is the vagina to penis ration at this show 100:1? Which reminded me of the days when I had my own studio and would go to the lab and the men would stand around talking to each other like it was an old boy’s club and I’d have to clear my throat really loudly to get their attention. All this yin energy made me particularly pleased to see the number of women photographers being represented at this year’s event. Girl power to the 9th degree.

This year’s show has been curated by David Lynch. He has visited all the kiosks, putting a small black sign, signed “vu par David Lynch” on his favorite photos, which makes for a fun way to visit the show. He’ll be there this weekend, participating in various conferences, while photographers like Martin Parr (Friday at 18h) and Jane Evelyn Atwood (Saturday at 16h) will be there signing recent books.

As you stroll the aisles you’ll recognize iconic works by masters like Henri Cartier-Bresson, Irving Penn and Annie Leibovitz. I was particularly enthralled with the collections at the East European galleries like the photos at the Asymetra Gallery (A42) from Warsaw or Vintage (B31) from Budapest.

Paris Photo is at the Grand Palais and runs until Nov 18.

Paris Fashion Week is over and I am officially on the mend, so its back to work and real life. Sometimes real life for me includes being Mr French’s date at corporate events. In my past life these were dull, boring affairs, so torturous it could make a girl want to rip her hair out. But in Paris, they often turn out to be fantastic soirées that I am thrilled to attend, even if I’ll be surrounded by lawyers of chicken farmers. Case in point, last week’s sneak preview of the Raphaël exhibit at the Louvre.

Mr French joined me under the pyramid, directly from the office, rain drops dashing off his raincoat. A quick bise and he asked if I knew who Raphaël was. Insulted, I started rattling off the (very) little that I did know.

“Yes, but did you know he was also one of the Ninja turtles. They were Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphaello and… zut, I’ve forgotten the last one.” I was ready for the champagne that just happened to be coming our way on a silver platter.

As much as I love art and can go into near ecstasies talking about a 24 hour long film that watches time go by, I am not a major fan of religious art. A bit too much gore and angst for my personal taste, and they all end up dead in the most gruesome ways. Makes me worry about the human condition and why we are so obsessed with a violent end.

Most art of this genre was commissioned work, so there is rarely any personal statement attached and not a lot of emotion going on. Which makes sense, because the emotion should be coming from the viewers’ religious faith, but it doesn’t do a lot for me, faith-less soul that I am.

I do love color and light, and Raphaël was a master at both. His paintings are pretty and there is often a random servant girl or disgruntled princess in the background, adding a dash of whimsy.

One more flûte and I was ready to enter the exhibit. There were docents to greet us and educate us in every gallery. Our first docent talked about Raphaël’s background and I was absolutely floored when she informed us that he had been greatly influenced by the other Ninja’s; Leo and Mic. She pointed out how he copied da Vinci’s triangle layout and the way Michelangelo interpreted movement. “Yes, but who was the 4th turtle?” Mr French hissed in my ear.

look at those toes

I’m not sure I was supposed to be fixating on this, but either 16th century Italian women had fingers on their feet, or Raphaël wasn’t so great at depicting the human form. From the classical oil paintings, we moved on to a room with some truly fantastic sketches and then another room with extraordinary tapestries. I really loved the tapestries, even if they were only based on sketches by the artist, and not actually created by the artist. Actually, Raphaël was a busy guy, with several ateliers and lots of students, doing everything from religious art to architectural drawings for buildings, so a lot of the work in this exhibition is not by Raphaël. I can only imagine his production had email existed.

There was one painting of Saint John the Bapstist that I really flipped for, but it was by Michelangelo and it was in the show to demonstrate how much Raphaël copied was inspired by the other masters of his time. You see a lot of it throughout the collection.

The final gallery focused on portraits. At last, great art with intriguing stories of arranged marriages and brothers that pulled the strings. The room was so inspirational that it inspired Mr French to lean over and whisper in my ear, “Donatello”. It was time to leave and get some more champagne.

Raphael is at the Louvre until January 14, 2013

This weekend is the Foire Internationale d’Art Contemporain. The whaaaahh? The FIAC, or FEE ACK, as the locals pronounce it. It is the contemporary art event of the Paris season, held in one of the most under-rated attractions of Paris, the Grand Nef of the Grand Palais, a recently renovated, immensely grandiose steel and glass structure built for the 1900 World’s Fair.

a little Calder for Jr's room?

Modern art galleries from l’Afrique du Sud to Uruguay pack up crates full of master pieces available for purchase. Today, I saw a whimsical little mobile from Calder that is available for a reasonable 3.5€ million. There are works by Picasso, Basquiat, Warhol, Twombly and my fetish du moment, Anish Kapoor. It is like being in a extremely luxurious flea market.

Love this Kapoor piece!

Art comes to life

And the crowd is a work of art in itself. Literally. Today I met Alexandra Fly, a Polish artist who attends these international art fairs dressed up in a bright pink outfit covered with rag sculpted penis and vaginas that is supposed to help defend Women’s Rights. There was a European couple, a man and a woman, both shaved completely bald and wearing identical fur coats with identical dresses underneath, identical black patent leather pumps and identical make-up jobs. I can’t even begin to imagine how they negotiate their wardrobe decisions before their morning coffee and I would really love to be a fly (not the Alexandra type) on the wall as they do their more mundane shopping.

I was afraid to ask what this was made of...

Beyond the household names there is a lot of art out there from artist’s I’ve never heard of, and some of it looks like crap. Again, I am being literal here. To be really honest, I don’t get about 90% of the art that is on display and I often wonder how much of it really is art and how much of it is some guy in his studio loving the idea of getting some rich folk to shell out a rather large wad of money for a collection of stuff he bought at a thrift shop.

Elias Crespin

And then there is the 10% I do get. Some of it is fun, or thought provoking, or mind boggling, but the pieces I really love are the ones that make me feel something by playing with my sense of perception. Anish Kapoor is a master at this and last year I was enthralled with an automated mobile by the Venezuelan artist, Elias Crespin. I was very excited to see that he is back, with an equally mesmerizing work of art.

Beyond the ultimate shopping opportunity, FIAC awards the Marcel Duchamp prize of 35000€ to a promising young artist, hosts the Young Curators Invitational program and offers a series of art conferences throughout the event. You can imagine that all of this comes with a price and attending the FIAC does involve long lines for expensive tickets. But not for everything.

Free FIAC

Because some of the best parts of FIAC are free. The Nocturne des Galeries is tonight and you can visit open houses being hosted in the city’s galleries until 23h. Click here for a map of what is open and where.  Hors les Murs is a collection of monumental pieces on display in public gardens like the Tuileries and the Jardin des Plantes. Making this the perfect weekend to head out and see some art, rain or (please god) shine!

Last week was La Nuit Blanche, when the entire city is encouraged to pull an all-nighter and stroll from art gallery to installation, appreciating the City of Light at night. I love this event and look forward to it every year, but this year I was particularly excited because I’d read in The New Yorker that Christian Marclay’s film The Clock would be playing at the Palais de Chaillot for the night.

When I tell friends that The Clock is a film in which the artist has taken scenes from other movies that show the exact minute on clocks or watches and he has patched them all together to make a 24 hour long film, we’ll they’re not exactly begging to be my date.

I was still sick. Mr French was sick and it was pouring rain. I insisted we go anyway. There was a 40 minute line outside of the Cité de l’Architecture, which is in the same building as the Théatre Chaillot. We felt like we’d won the lottery as we walked up to the front door.

“Ah, non madame, the entrance is around the corner, through the tourist hoards and down the stairs.” Fantastique.

Downstairs, of course, there was a line. A very long line. Turns out there are a LOT of The Clock groupees in Paris. We got into line and after 40 minutes in the now cold rain, Mr French looked into my eyes lovingly, “This movie had better be good, chérie.”

“I don’t know about the film, but I sure know you love me after this wait.”

5 minutes later we were in a large tent with dozens of IKEA sofas. We settled in and we were swept away, watching time fly without seeing the time pass. I know that the concept sounds dry and boring, but there are scenes that tell a story in each one of those minutes that Marclay captures on celluloid and he takes those scenes and weaves them together, creating a tapestry of new stories and captivating interactions.

You’re in a 1950’s newsroom when an injured, bleeding man falls forward, surprising you and terrifying the woman from the next scene, in her 1940’s farmhouse. It is also fun to identify the movies and the actors from American, but also French, Italian, Japanese and other international films. Tati Danielle drops her dentures into a jar next to the clock on the bedside table while Indiana Jones stews for five minutes in a casbah.

As midnight approaches you start seeing more and more clocks and watches, creating tension as the celebrations begin, then quickly turn into gruesome deaths, all in a span of sixty seconds. We staid for 2 hours and 40 minutes, and even then I had to peel Mr French off of the sofa and into La Nuit Blanche.

NOTE / The Clock travels the world so be sure to make time to see it when the film visits your town.