Category Archives: art

Child of the 80s

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And proud of it. Or at least, I don’t mind. Its not like I exactly had a choice in the matter, and while I wince at the memory of my forest green polyester dress suit, I still wear my purple fleece Norma Kamali winter coat and I am happy to spend hours with E and M, curled up on the sofa, munching away on popcorn as we watch Molly Ringwald’s melted chocolate eyes on the silver screen, seducing us through the expert guidance of John Hughes.

When I met my new BFF, Scaramouche this weekend I naturally had Freddy Mercury bellowing Bohemian Rhapsody in my mind. “Thunderbolt and lightening…”. Curiousity got the better of me and I learned that his namesake is a conceited clown from the commedia dell’arte. Clearly, this was my kind of dude. And what was the 2012 Scaramouche’s particular brand of conceit? Commercial hubris.

flipping through folded bus stop posters... a voyeuristic joy

This reformed pharmacist, friend of the graphic novelist Moebius and over all connaisseur rules over his domain like a light-hearted, extremely knowledgable clown, teasing flâneurs who have stopped to rest their weary soles at the terasses of the cafes in the Passage Molière. That is how Mr French and I first discovered his shop, Librairie Scaramouche. We were sitting there, sipping away at our poirés (think cidre, made with pears, delish!) when a door popped open and inside we spied a treasure trove… Ali Baba’s cavern.

Just beyond the man, we spied posters of the great, classic cinema from every decade. Everything from Mon Oncle to the 2012 Cannes film festival; Audrey in Vacanze Romane to Tim Burton at the Cinemathéque, it was all there. There were cheap reprints, affordable press shots and vintage posters, as well.

We spent hours wotj Scaramouche, admiring his collection while we discussed Moebius and Billal. Most of the work is quite affordable, in the 20€ range. I can’t wait to come back here in November for our Christmas shopping. Hopefully by then he’ll have had time to hunt down a Pretty in Pink poster in French…

Don’t walk, fly…

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photo courtesy of Ahae site

So a Frenchman and an Englishman are chatting about a Korean man over lunch in Malaysia…. sounds like the start of some silly joke, but this really did happen about a year ago. Only the Frenchman is the director of the Louvre museum and he was speaking with an interior designer about the photographer Ahae, and his latest project; 2 million photos taken from the same window over 2 years.

Monsieur Loyrette was intrigued and a year later, “AHAE at the Tuileries” posters with a photo of a lone crane were lining the boulevards of Paris.

“What is AHAE” I asked Mr French, who avidly follows Beaux Arts magazine and listen about art on the radio every day on the way to the office.

“I have no idea, and we’ll probably never find out.

I didn’t protest. The photo looked like a shot from National Geographic. Technically perfect, but not overly compelling.

Yesterday morning though, we had a fantastic run, ending in the gardens near the Orangerie, just as they opened the AHAE exhibition for the day. There wasn’t a soul and entrance was free, so in we went.

photo courtesy of Ahae site

The first thing we read was Henri Loyrette’s ode to the serendipity of the moment he first learned of Ahae. We were instantly intrigued. The first photos, hung on zen grey walls were gorgeous. He must have an gi-normous window, I thought to myself. But no, a few steps later and the exhibition showed the exact size and view from Ahae’s window in Korea. An ordinary window with an ordianry view provided the frame work for an absolutely extra-ordianary body of work.

photo courtesy of Ahae site

Personally, I loved the abstract impressions on the water, displayed in an oval room, reflecting Monet’s waterlily galleries less than 250 meters away. Ahae laso has a fantastic eye for selecting wildlife shots that are particularly moving; magpies de-ticking a deer, a bird getting his neck in a twist to better contemplate the dragonfly squatting his tree branch and a Kingfisher just a nano-second from diving into dinner. There, among the wildlife work, is another window, exactly the same size and height as Ahae’s, this one looking into the gardens. I stood, there trying to imagine what Ahae might see that I missed, exploring a very familiar sight with completely new eyes.

The exhibition is free, but only runs until July 27, so if you’re here, go as fast as your wings will carry you.

 

A Monumental Monumenta

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Monumenta 2012

When I came to Paris as a student, the Louvre had a day that was free for students. At the time, the entrance was at the eastern end of the palace, and I used to love walking past the crowds once a week, heading straight into the museum with my backpack. I would set-up on a large, wide bench, directly in front of Jean Louis David’s painting of Napoleon’s Coronation, and I would do my homework. The whole week’s worth. It would take me hours and I loved that time in the somber, dust scented air.

Monumenta 2009

I have not tried this as an adult, but I suspect the increased crowds would now be something of a distraction. However, I still go to museums or art galleries on a nearly weekly basis. A lot of the art I am seeing these days is contemporary. I love the playfulness, the irreverence and the pertinence of the art being created today.

Paris has the annual FIAC, Salon de la Photography and countless other events to keep the scene fresh and new. One of my favorite events is Monumenta, when every May an artist is invited to create an installation for the Grand Nef of the Grand Palais. The space is gi-normous making for art that is Grand to the power of two.

A few years ago an artist I really admire, Richard Serra was invited. His pieces are known for their huge scale, but inside the Grand Nez, his artistically rusted steel walls seemed like ridiculous child’s toys. A domino set ready to topple. In the video made about the show he mentioned that he had under estimated the volume of the space. I would say so!  In fact, I was so disappointed that I skipped the Boltanski show in 2010; large cranes moving in piles of clothing.

Monumenta 2011

Last year, another favorite of mine, Anish Kapoor accepted the challenge. M Kapoor’s art is not always monumental in scale and there is an entire body of his recent work that I find silly (the cement droppings), but I curiosity got the better of me. Thankfully, because it was perhaps the single most impressive art experience of my life. I now have an idea of what the folks during the Renaissance may have felt when the first saw the Mona Lisa, or how visitors to the 19th century Salons may have when first viewing a Monet. This piece change the definition of art for me, adding an entirely new vocabulary and leaving me dizzy from the experience.

Buren was the guest of honor. He is the artist responsible for the black and white columns at the Palais Royale, and while I think they are fun, I am not convinced it is great art. I expected to be disappointed. I was wrong. I still would not consider his installation great art, but it has a lot of what I like from the contemporary scene; it was playful, inspired interaction and made you see something in a new light. This time quite literally, with blue, green, orange and yellow plastics filtering our view of the Nef and changing the light shining down on one another.

I can’t wait to see who is in town next year!

NYC adventures

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There are those who want to wake up in the city that never sleeps, but Monday night, after a fabulous evening enjoying the totally irreverent, absolutely hysterical Book of Mormon, we just wanted something to eat. We left the theater district and headed to our hotel for dinner only to discover that the local kitchens had closed by 10pm. It was 10:10. We were starting to suspect that perhaps the Upper East Side wasn’t really New York City. We went to bed with nothing more than a yogurt and awoke anxious to see the real New York.

In the meat packing district we came upon a couple with stylists, professional lighting and make-up artists all around. Being a photographer, I started shooting. Being a Jewish mother, I started questioning the photographer on the project. “Whatchya doing? Who’s it for? ” I asked as his crew walked casually by with a large aluminum-clad flash reflector, attempting to block my view. It hardly registered. Clearly these folks did not realize they were crossing paths with a almost trained Parisenne.

“Michel Kors’ Fall collection” came the surprisingly helpful reply.

“Oh, really? MK? I was thinking maybe Zadig et Voltaire.” Et voilà. The photographer was no longer writing me off as some lost tourist trying to get a cheap thrill, but acknowledged me as a fashion savvy connaisseur even if I didn’t have ‘the look’. I was in. The crew relaxed, we started firing away in unison and I was rewarded with some great shots with the illusion that I’d been an international fashion photographer for five minutes of my life. I’m just keeping my fingers crossed that I haven’t eaten into the 15 minutes of fame we are all guaranteed.

Continuing on our journey we found New Yorkers. Lovely, colorful people, everywhere we turned. From the tatooed dude with his checker-board shaved pooch, to a hipster mending his jeans (I’m guessing they were SF factory sewn 501s) while perusing his iPad. As a native from the Santa Cruz foothills, I’m fairly confident this kid has never been on a surfboard in his life. Real surfers don’t gel.

As we wandered, I’d stop to chat with people, asking permission to take their photos, exchanging stories of where we’re from and what we love about New York. It was a real vacation for me to be in a city where people are open and where I don’t have to think about what I am going to say. Although I am fluent in French, I am not bilingual and this trip made me realize how very much I weigh my words, mentally constructing each sentence before I speak. Studies show this kind of mental gymnastics postpones the onset of alzheimer’s and since I am already fairly forgetful, this is probably very good news, but its also somewhat exhausting and can erode one’s self confidence. I was liking talking to strangers.

And I met some wonderful, really interesting people, like the Harvard Medical school professor who inspires girls to reach their full academic potential and is writing about managing social media in the home.

Another advantage is that being friendly leads to all kinds of adventures. Like in the basement of the Neue Galerie where my curiosity got the better of me and I started ogling the photo studio set-up they were installing. A few questions later and Mr French and I were sitting for a portrait that may possibly be part of an exhibition celebrating the 150th birthday of Gustav Klimt. How cool is that? Of course, the birthday party will be even cooler, but I don’t think I’m on the guest list…

Neue Gallerie

Neue Galerie

 

FindingArt

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More art moves in

NYC seems to have more art than it knows what to do with. So much that some has been spotted hanging out by the trash! We set off on our holidays with a long list of museums, exhibits and art galleries to visit. On the top of our list was the Stein Collection at the Met, a show we had missed when it had been in Paris and were determined not to miss again. When it was in town the lines had been hours long and it was recommended that visitors pre-book their visits, so I asked the front desk staff at our hotel about doing the same. They looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. This happens to me often when traveling with Mr French, because we speak French with one another and when we are abroad, I often forget that I need to switch back to English when addressing the general public. I tried again, this time making sure I was speaking in my mother tongue, but I got the same blank stare. So we took our chances and it seemed like magic… there was no line at the Met. That rarely happens in a Paris museum, so we felt like we had been touched with fairy dust. I have been in love with the Met ever since reading “The Mixed-up Files of Mrs Basil E Frankweiler”. I was falling deeper in love as we headed to the exhibit, passing a stunning Van Gogh to our left, an impressive Byzantine tile to our right, and trying not to get side tracked by the Greek collection just ahead.

The Stein Collection exhibition was fascinating; more for the history of the family and their evolution as collectors, than for the actual art. They were well off, but not outlandishly rich, so the often had to do with the lesser works of the artists they so admired. There were some stunning pieces, of course, but they were overwhelmed y the collection of the Met itself.

Staying private art collections, we headed to the Frick mansion, not too far away. Frick had been a steel magnate and buddy of Andrew Carnegie. Unlike the Steins, he was outlandishly rich. After immigrating to NYC from Pittsburg, he started to get very serious about collecting art and in a few short years he had built a home that he intended as a museum, filling it with an eclectic collection of masterpieces from Europe. As a collector, he took particular delight in reuniting portraits that had been painted as a pair and were separated over time. I loved the humour of acquiring the Thomas Cromwell and Sir Thomas More (watch the Tudors for an entertaining account of their rivalry) portraits by Holbein and placing them on either side of the fireplace.

By this time, I was fascinated with the idea of private art collections, so the next day we really had no choice but to visit the Neue Gallery that was founded by a scion of the Estée Lauder fortune. Like the Frick, this museum was born of a rich man’s passion for art. Unlike Frick, Robert Lauder chose to focus his museum on a very particular region, featuring art and design from Austria and Germany, with stunning work by Klimt, Schiele, Hoffmann and Moser. Having such a precise mandate creates a small, easy to visit museum with some truly stunning works of art.

Ironically, the art we were seeing was all from Europe, so it was clearly time to get out of the museums and see some of America!

Museum Mile

A new art space

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Last Sunday it was grey, and miserable and pouring rain, so we headed to the Palais de Tokyo to check out the newly renovated exhibition space that is now the largest contemporary art space in Europe.

My first impression is that the place desperately needs a face lift. I loved the space. It is really and truly phenomenal, but it is falling a part. Literally. Chucks of wall are missing, areas are roped off because tiny waterfalls are infiltrating the area, and it was sometimes difficult to distinguish the art work from the repairs. I eventually asked Mr French when they were closing the space for renovations. Which is when he announced that this was the post renovation re-opening!?!

 

This is a humongous space, so there is a LOT of art. And reading the press reviews after the show, I saw that we missed a chunk of it, despite spending 3 hours in a maze that extended over three stories of art. Photography is allowed and I had a lot of fun playing with the interaction between the art and my camera. My legs + someone else’s sculpture = a new collaborative piece.

 

The Palais de Tokyo does not have a permanent collection, and I can not say I was overwhelmed by the exhibit, Triennial, that we explored. There were a lot of great ideas, but even the work by artists that I generally appreciate, like Ann Messager, appeared only half complete. Some of the art seemed like it belonged at the Quai Branly and other pieces were just documentaries or political protests disguised as art. Some of it was x-rated. But some of it was fun, too, and thought provoking. A small minority was truly great, belonging in the Pompidou collection, like the film of the girl who explodes herself into 6 easy pieces that detach and move about a black background (see top photo).

Regardless of the art, the space itself is a masterpiece, well worth the visit.

After the show we headed to the Palais’ restaurant, Tokyo EAT for a tasty lunch which has a serious Asian slant with an appreciation for food that once had roots and lots of tempting fruit/vegetable non-alcoholic cocktails. We invited a couple of Parisienne teens and they found it so good they had to finish their plates, even if that isn’t entirely chic with the ‘in’ crowd.

Le Tokyo Eat

 

 

 

A Day Off

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The kids were on school break last week and Mr French was away on business. With E preoccupied preparing for her Bac exams and The Bug visiting family in sunny California I had a rare bit of leisure time on my hands. The skies were a leaden grey, mingling with relentless rain and my Parisiennes were almost all away visiting far-flung family or on exotic vacations to wonderfully alluring places like Mauritius, so I was having an unhealthy dose of holiday envy. It was time for a break. But a working girl has got to work, so I took the morning off, picked up some out of town guests and headed to the rue Denoyez in the 20th arrondissement for a little cultural disorientation and a wild collection of street art.

We were really lucky to catch a tagger in the act just as we arrived. Unfortunately, he is from Barcelona and does not speak French. I do not speak Spanish. We tried a bit of English but the most I got out of him was that he has two names; a real name and his tag name, both of which I have forgotten.

We visited his gallery, Mind, where I snapped a few shots of the paint cans that reminded my of photos I had taken at my tailor’s. The canvases in the gallery were small, which must take a considerable amount of skill, but inside on the walls, I found them to be a bit sad and without any of the power of good graffiti. them continued up the street to admire the pique-assiette parking poles, pochoir street art and more graffiti. It was colorful and bright. The perfect ant-depressant to combat the dreary grey spring we’ve had this year. We had fun identifying Rimbaud, finding Batman and admiring a particularly twisted montage of decapitated Barbie dolls exposed to the elements in an emptied out hole of a tired old building.

The pièce de résistance came as we ended our walk and turned right on to the rue Ramponeau, heading towards the Belleville market. There was a truly impressive example of black and white graffiti art that we discovered just as a femme walked by in brightly clad African fashion. Confirming that you don’t need museums to enjoy great art. 

 

Get in Line!

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My chief Parisienne is, just as you’d suspect a very elegant, chic lady. She had a “golden” childhood as the fille de someone important and is my principle guide for all things purely Parisienne. It can not be a surprise then, that Mlle Paris was the first to tempt me with the black magic of line jumping. It was La Nuits des Musées, with hundreds lining up at the Musée Rodin, waiting patiently for the promised flashlights and night gardens. The line started at the entrance, continuing west towards Les Invalides, wrapping around the corner and into the parking lot. We arrived from the east and Mlle Paris just walked right up to the head of the line, acting like a VIP, entering without glancing left or right. I followed behind, five kids in tow.

No one batted an eyelash, or spoke out, or even seemed to noticed. I was flabbergasted. I was amazed. I liked it!

“How did you do that?”” I asked, somewhat in awe.

“I walked in.” she shrugged, “Those lines are for everyone else. They are not for us.”

Its foul to admit, but I had had a taste of line jumping and I was wanting more. I now line jump regularly, but in a considerably more civilized way; pre-purchasing tickets online whenever possible.

This Saturday was no exception and I started the day thrilled about avoiding the long line in front of the Centre Pompidou, where we were headed for the Matisse exhibit.

Once up the tube elevators, I was crushed to see a large crowd, everyone holding a billet coupe-file. The loudest, most hyperactive Italian kids were just in front us, providing some great comic relief as we were treated to an impromptu, modern version of Dino Risi’s hysterical Italian film, I Mostris.

The Matisse show is so popular that it runs until 23h four nights a week. And with reason, because once inside we were spell bound by the art. His colors! His lines! The rooms were full and crowded, but we hardly seemed to notice, being so entranced with the work.

So entranced that I started snapping away, totally lost in the moment. I didn’t notice the pompous jerk who approached me until he had hit my hand, swatting my camera down. I was shocked and startled and asked what he was doing. He told me that no photos were allowed, which is when I spied his name tag; M LeGrand, official museum guide. I calmly told him that was fine, but he should be respectful and should have told me politely. He snorted. I kind of lost it at that point and told him that he was rude and that no, I hadn’t seen the “no photo” sign at the entry to the exhibit because I had been distracted by a bunch of hyper-active Italian kids and and that there was no sign in the room and that he was a jerk.

“And what uncouth country did you waddle over from?” he sneered after tutoyer-ing me and questioning my sanity rather loudly.

“That is none of your concern. What concerns you is that I am fluent in two cultures, and you can never hope to be as intelligent.”

At that point a woman from his lecture series piped in saying it was enough. I glanced up to realize that we had an audience of thirty hostile folks all looking annoyed that someone had interrupted their lecture. I backed down trembling.

A woman from the group kindly came over to express her outrage at the guide and we agreed that M LeGrand, was in fact very, very petit.

Matisse

A well earned photo

Mr French’s natural instinct was to punch the guy in the nose, but he has spent a life time controlling those alpha-male instincts, so he gave me a kiss instead and we continued to enjoy the show.

Generally, I follow the rules, particularly when it comes to waiting in line and photography in an art exhibit. But on this one occasion, I am very proud to have my illicit shot. So take that, M LeGrand!

Matisse

Hiquily

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Hiquily puzzle

Finding Art

I simply love exploring all the short cuts and secret passages in Paris. At times, I have been known to mortify my entire family by pushing the brass button on a security pad at a random building, hoping to enter an unknown courtyard, totally uninvited. It is beyond my will power to resist the large, wide-open porte cochères. Which is how I happened upon a woman piecing together Hiquily sculptures in a courtyard on the rue des Beaux Arts. While I only recognized the work, Mr French already knew the artist’s name and his background and quickly filled me in.

Hiquily at St Germain

Lady of the ???

Phillipe Hiquily is a 87 year old French artist, famous for his metal, mobile, semi-erotic sculptures that can be found at museums like the Pompidou, MOMA, Guggenheim and Smithsonian. The LOFT gallery has just published a catalogue raisonné, a comprehensive catalogue of an artist’s work, on Hiquily. It exceeds 700 pages. In celebration, Hiquily statues have been installed on the Places St Sulpice and St Germain, with free exhibits open to the public in the Mairie of the 6th arrondissement, and another at the Hotel Lutetia, all running until April 28.

Back in the courtyard we learned from the art assembler that the gallery was presenting a small show of his works available for sale upstairs. I went bounding up. I was charmed by the small 8 inch models of his sculptures (25,000€), but would have really liked one of the three foot tall miniatures (30,000€) for my balcony. If you have a large garden, his monumental pieces are also available, but I didn’t even think to ask the price on those. Its just not practical to have a 5 metre tall work of art in a Paris flat.

A party at the Mairie on the 5th of April kicks off the festivities at 19h. The man himself will be at LOFT on the 19th of April, from 18h to 21h, signing copies of the catalogue (180€ throughout the exhibit, then rising to 220€). Other signings will be held at the Hotel Lutetia on the 18th.

Back in the courtyard I photographed the art dealer, totally amazed at her casual attitude as she dusted off huge chunks of metal that were collectively worth a small fortune. I shared my wonder with Mr French, who replied, “Its not like you’re going to walk off with the piece, its huge.” Which kind of gave me an idea… how much is truck rental in Paris???

Galerie LOFT

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