by the Brazilian Ethos

Da Vinci, Picasso, Mehdi Ben Cheikh. I believe the art world has a new genius. Not in the traditional way, because Monsieur Ben Cheikh is not an artist, he runs the Paris art gallery Itinerrance, which specializes in Street Art. But he has created a modern masterpiece, ideal for the digital age.

In an interview, comparing street art to the 100 yr old cubist movement, the 38 year old, Tunisian born galleriest spoke of needing to create a new venue for street art, which, he asserts, doesn’t really belong in a gallery, or a museum. He is not wrong. He is so convinced of the need for alternative venues that he was able to convince the Mairie of the 13th arrondissement to lend him a housing project that had been vacated by its tenants and will be torn down Nov 1. Then he convinced 100 street artists from across the globe to come and do their thing in the 4500M2, 9 story, 36 apartment building.

The result is phenomenal and word spread quickly. After two weeks, the lines were 5 hours long, then 7 and by the time I arrived at 8:30 on a brisk autumn morning they were predicting a 9 hour wait. Visitors had been there since 5am for the 10am opening, using abandoned couches and found furniture to make the wait more comfortable. There were families with young children, grandparents, teens and hipsters of every color and every social background. Guards were helping the handicapped get to the front of the line where they have priority.

Like the artists who participated, journalists from across the globe showed up, gathering in a small park near the entrance. An unusually chatty and punctual local press arrived; nobody was going to risk missing this experience and we were all giddy in anticipation.  An elderly lady with a crutch approached a guard, yelling at him about the line and how it was destroying her neighborhood; notebooks came out, pens scribbling down the conversation. This had been her home and she did not like seeing the swarm of humanity at what had once been her doorstep. She came every morning to yell at the guards and collect her mail.

There was a loud uproar when the press agent opened the doors for 45 lucky journalists. We were told we’d have one hour, not one second more, to visit the entire project. We rushed up all 9 flights to the sound of frantic foot steps, laboured breathing and comments about needing to join a gym. In instant contrast, there was total silence on the landing of the 9th floor; no matter how in shape we were, the art had taken everyone’s breath away.

Its hard to explain the sensation. It isn’t merely street art, this is a carefully curated collection featuring the best graffiti artists in the world and they were given an extraordinarily rare opportunity, which inspired some truly incredible art. Unlike a museum, or a gallery YOU ARE IN THE ART. It is above you, below you and all around. The colors are rich and saturated. The light was dim, streaming in from random windows and the occasional spot. The mood became reverential. I think every one of us was completely awestruck as we rushed from room to room, some of us taking photos, other notes and the lucky few who were just taking it all in.
The time limit created an internal frenzy; we wanted to see it all, but needed to absorb it, to. I recognized some of my favorite graffiti artists from exhibitions at the Cartier Foundation and the Musée de la Poste; local boy C215 who pochoir-ed in some crazy cats, and the Brazialian Ethos with this playful bright scenes. Some of the artists have something to say. There were hommages to other great artists and authors, commentary on urbain decay, studies on the definition of home, or graffiti’s place in the world today. Other works were just about the beauty of the image.

At 10am exactly, I was on the rez de chaussez, ready to go, but there was more. I should have known, they’d gone down the basement, using reflective paint under black light. A large cow head loomed over the space like an ancient deity. There were abandoned strollers, body parts, a street sign. I walked out into the daylight trembling. I had been an integral part of a work of art for the last 55 minutes, and somehow, it had changed me. Created a gentle shift in my soul, like a true masterpiece.

There is a movement to save this work of art. I am against that. This is a home for people who would otherwise not have a home and it is for the greater good. I do hope the gallery saves some of the work. A wall here, a bathtub there. But I suspect that Monsieur Ben Cheikh will stay true to his original mission and let it go up in dust. Geniuses are like that. Able to stick with a vision.
There are more photos on my Facebook Page

If you’d like to learn more about the project and see some videos, click here

Yesterday, through the bizarre-atude that is the internet, I landed on an old article in Le Figaro listing the 100 things every Parisian should do at least once in Paris. Intrigued, I printed it out and head for #26, a café at “my” Café de Flore, where I sit writing this, scrunched between a very chic Parisienne and her actress daughter, and two ebullient Italians. At 13h30, the Parisiennes are having their morning coffee, the Italians wine.

My mind wandered to Miami, where I once found myself having to spend the day alone with a woman I hardly knew. My husband was a lawyer, hers a doctor and they were best friends, bound in friendship by a neurotic, Montreal Jewish upbringing. The woman and I took my rental car down to Key West and rented scooters, touring the island without helmets. Knowing that the very idea of our adventures would strike fear in our husbands’ hearts, we relished the moment! Scooters without a helmet would strike nothing in a Parisian, but according to Number 1 on Le Figaro’s list, locals get that same living-on-the-edge sensation by eating at a museum restaurant, without visiting the museum. Such rebels !

The categories themselves are pretty revealing. First and foremost, where to splash out on a gourmet delight! Then comes what to do when you’re in love, when you’re free, nightlife, culture and finally, things to do when you’re feeling blue, a common state of affairs in a city that puts so much emphasis on love. There is a miscellaneous category, which ends at 100, but the official list goes on to include 8 other activities, because, well, following the rules, even if its the writer himself who sets the rules, is just so unFrench!

The list inspires me… I start checking off what I’ve done; 66 activities, which include getting refused from the über chic night club Castel, missing my stop at Michel-Ange Molitor and having to do a major detour, finishing a book while sitting in the chairs in the Luxembourg gardens, and of course, running in the Tuilleries Gardens as dawn.

There are 9 that I’d never dream of, like paying 80€ for a roast chicken at L’Ami Louis or sharing a large steak for two at La Tour de Montlhéry, Chez Denise at six o’clock in the morning! I have, as the French say, passé l’age for that one.

Which means there are 25 things in Paris I’m now tempted to do. Mr French and I have not tried 3 of the 7 romantic things to do, which gives me some great ideas for how to greet him when he gets back from China next week! Its too late for him to order a cocktail the color of my eyes at the Ritz Hemingway bar before it closes, which leaves carving our names somewhere in Paris (they specify the catacombs) and getting a room for an hour, or three, at a love hotel.

I was surprised to see a visit to Deyrolle, the taxidermist, was not on the list, nor was anything even remotely related to fashion. I’d also have added a merry-go-round ride at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, demonstrating in a manif’, ice skating at the Hotel de Ville, the Champs Elysées Christmas market, and cycling the Canal Saint Martin on a Sunday. And a café at Flore? My n’est plus ultra at Flore is a flute of champagne with their cracked pepper kettle chips. Les Berges de la Seine didn’t exist when the list was compiled, so I’ve let that one slide.
Now I’m anxious to attack the 22 must do’s I haven’t done….a serious film festival, a pétanque game on the Canal Saint Martin, and making my hair stand on end at the Palais de la Découverte. So, next week I’m off to try and accomplish as many must do’s as possible in one day… wish me merde* !

*French for good luck.

Click here for… THE LIST Its in French, but its pretty easy to decypher. I’d love to hear what you’d add, what you’ve done and what you’d have left off!!!

Last week I mentioned training for a marathon as I ran around like a mad woman for Paris Fashion Week. I wasn’t being poetic. I was actually training for a half marathon these past few weeks.

Every summer Mr French and I go to Hossegor and every summer for the past five years, he has prodded me into running around the lake with him. At first, I’d run 100 meters, then walk 100 meters, then bitch, moan and whine a bit before running a little further. I hated it. Every step of it. It makes you sweat, it hurts, its boring and I felt foolish as lame people in leg braces would whizz by running faster than I could imagine.

Then last winter I met a women who was planning to run a half marathon around Mount Kilamanjaro. An excuse to go to Africa? Not that I really need one, but I was inspired. I was going to train to run a half marathon and do it in Africa. It felt like destiny. I started running more and more, still hating every moment of it. I joined a team run by a fancy sneaker brand and the coach scoffed; if I didn’t start doing intervals, I’d never be able to run a half marathon. What were intervals? Another coach scoffed; I was almost too late to start training for a race that was an entire year away!!! Reports came back from the race. It sounded dangerously disorganized and I lost interest.

I was still running about 6km three days a week, just to stay healthy, and unbeknownst to me, a seed had been planted. This summer at Hossegor, for the first time ever, I was excited to run. I wanted to run the 6km around the lake, then a few extra km up the canal, and while we were at it, why not twice around the lake? By the time we came home my 6km runs were now 8-11km and I was enjoying the challenge.

I looked online to see what it would really take to train for a half marathon. Shape.com had a fantastic schedule, 12 weeks and I’d be good to go. On closer inspection, I realized I was already well into the program. I only needed 7 weeks. Wanting to keep my routine to my schedule, I decided I’d run the 21.1km that is a half marathon on my own, in Paris on Oct 13.

People told me I was nuts. Wait for a race, my friends said. My father worried, Mr French was plotting out a route that would allow him to follow me. And then someone mentioned that the 20km de Paris was Oct 13. I could run a (almost) half marathon with 30,000 folks, which put everyone else’s mind at ease and totally freaked me out.

I didn’t see this run as a big deal. I had already run 16km on my own, why would I need so much support for 20km? But yesterday I headed to the Trocadero, picked up my dossard and was ready to go.

It was gorgeous out and the time seemed to fly a quickly as teh cobbled road under my feet. For the first time ever I ran 10km in under an hour. As I ran, I thought of a blog post I’d read about a runner who does it for the medals. She loves collecting those medals and I started to scoff, but had to stop myself as I realized that I do it for the shirts, which is the same thing. Ever the fashion monger, I loved wearing my Parisienne shirt as I ran to the base of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco and along the reservoir in Central Park. I can’t wait to wear the flaming pink, Eiffel Tower decorated shirts this spring as I run along Lake Michigan in Chicago.

At 16th km I was in new territory. I’d never run this far before in my life. I started feeling heavy headed, sound was muffled and my ears felt stuffed. “This is odd…” I thought to myself as I looked at my heart monitor. Oops! Not so odd… My running heart rate is usually 168-172 and should never go above 180. It was at 201! I slowed down to a brisk walk, frustrated that I wouldn’t be breaking any more personal records that day, but happy to see my heart rate come down immediately. I finished the event with my eyes glued to the monitor, only looking up once. And just as I looked up, there he was, Mr French on the sidelines cheering me along. It was perfect timing, after all!!!

And so I completed my first (almost) half marathon.

The fashion buyers, shoppers and trend setters have all packed up and headed home for the season, but my mind is still on fashion week and the trends I spotted there. Beyond plaid, the fashion world seems to have gotten the blues. And not just any blue, but a pure, bright, nearly but not quite electric blue.

The end. And yes, that’s flesh you’re seeing under that there skirt. Très risqué Mademoiselle, but if I had her shape, I’d be tempted to show it off, too!