The Other Man

Must be love... I'm seeing hearts everywhere....

Must be love… I’m seeing hearts everywhere….

Like any good love story, it began with a pair of new shoes. A stunning pair of orange and raspberry sorbet toned Nike Free. The salesman cradled my foot, his lips and his chocolate brown eyes promising me that these shoes were made for running. Like a fool, I believed him and within hours I was racing along Lake Michigan, the bright colors at my feet a delicious treat.

In the days to come they sweetened runs around the Central Park reservoir in NYC and the Berges de la Seine on Thursday, May 1, a gloomy Parisian Labour Day. Virtually every museum and shop in town closes for the day, martyred workers getting more respect than a certain baby born on Dec 25.

After the run, I showered and put my feet up for a moment. An incredibly long moment, because when I set them back on the floor, I found that I could no longer walk. The slightest pressure on my left heel brought undeniable pain. I headed to Google and had my diagnosis within seconds. Nike Free indeed… free of proper support. In just a few runs, my new shoes had given me Plantar Fasciatis, aka runner’s heel.

A two week ban on running was the general consensus. The ‘net being a bad place for good medical advice, I called my osteopath.

Osteo-what? a good friend from the US asked me. I’d had had an osteo in San Francisco, so I’d assumed they were common. Apparently not, so I explained that an osteo treats the musculoskeletal system. While considered alternative medicine, osteopaths in the US must be licensed physicians.

I discovered osteopathy after giving birth to the only baby who wouldn’t sleep in a moving car or in a baby seat atop a spinning clothes drier. Em was an insomniac and after nine sleep-deprived months, I was a wreck. A friend suggested an osteopath. I was desperate enough to try something that seemed weird and perhaps dangerous. After a standard check up, the Dr put her hands on my baby’s skull and just held them there. I was relieved that the treatment wasn’t extreme, but felt like I was paying for nothing as I wrote the check. Stepping out of the office on to bustling Market St, I glanced down, Em had fallen asleep in her stroller. Asleep! In public! I rushed to the parking lot, secured her into her car seat, locked the doors and tumbled in beside her, my first nap in ages. I was a believer.

Osteos, as we call them in France, are very common. There is one across the street from our flat, Monsieur Maury. I have been seeing him sporadically since first moving to Paris. I’ll walk into his office complaining of a sore hip or stiff neck, he’ll invite me to lay down, then touch the sore area gently, his permanently warm hands melting into me. Sometimes, he may adjust some pressure or change his hold. I lay there each time, thinking his is doing nothing. Once my body convulsed in an electric charge, releasing ages of pent up tension, usually I just fall asleep.

This week I hobbled in, totally crushed. Before the appointment a friend had told me I’d require shots and it would never heal, another had had the same and it had taken a year to heal (her heel!). M Maury scoffed at my bleak outlook. His wife runs marathons, his daughter dances classic ballet; he knew exactly what he was dealing with. I lay down as he gently cradled my heel into his two hands. After 20 minutes, with one embarrassing snore the only perceptible movement, he was done, and scheduled me for a follow up. By Wednesday afternoon I was walking pain-free. By Saturday, he assures me I’ll be ready to run. So yes, I am in love with my osteopath, and seeing another man, but Mr French doesn’t mind one bit. In fact, with no more tears of pain intruding on our Saturday afternoons, he’s a big fan of the other man!

M Maury’s contact information is available by request.

La voiture

Screen shot 2014-05-05 at 6.11.37 PMParisiennes get to be a certain age and they start asking themselves if they wouldn’t be happier with a car. The arguments are sound; a private car is smells infinitely better, nobody is crammed up against you and they tend to be pickpocket-free. In theory, you can let your guard down (when parked, of course) for a few minutes each day as you savour a moment ALONE, nobody impeding on your personal space.

Recently, I had to slip behind the wheel to drop off a 100lbs stereo for repairs and I pulled out of our garage wondering if I this wouldn’t be a fun little habit to get into. I set the gps for the shop, just 1 km from our flat, but 1.5 km away, thanks to one way streets. I’d known before heading out that parking on the shop’s narrow, cobbled street would be next to impossible, so I’d arranged to have the owner wait for me as I pulled up. Within seconds he had popped the trunk and carried off the stereo, but I already had two generously patient drivers stuck behind me.

I now had to find a proper place to park. A spin around the block showed that every corner was taken by illegally parked cars with their hazard lights on. After the third tour I followed suit, stopping in a delivery zone just long enough to run in and sign for my drop off. There was barely time for a courteous. “Bonjour, monsiuer, merci, bonne journée.”

Whew. Mission accomplished. The way home was a direct shot. I headed up the longest street in Paris, veering left as a large AVIS van nearly backed up into me. I had a car behind me and he had a busy boulevard behind him. We finally managed to back out of the street and I saw that a construction crane had set up in the middle of the road. No signs had blocked off the street, there had been no warning.

Hakuna Matata they say in Swahili. No worries. I knew a detour. Back up the boulevard and left about a kilometer later. Again, a large van was blocking the road, and more importantly, the view. I missed seeing that the street was under construction, forcing me to back up into a busy boulevard for the second time in 10 minutes.

By now, I had traveled 3 km from the shop and was 2 km further from my home than when I’d started. Another left turn, this time the street was clear. Until a taxi stopped and an elderly lady spent 5 minutes getting out. Then there were two construction obstructions and a small traffic jam caused by exuberant shoppers.

I parked the car at home. It had taken me 33 minutes to complete a 1km journey that I could have walked in 12 minutes. No wonder I love being chauffeured around by Mr French, taxi drivers and the fine (wo)men of the RATP.

La Conasse

Screen shot 2014-05-02 at 2.46.56 PMor, why the French are known for being RUDE.

Conasse is French for b*tch, and is an insult you’ll often hear on the streets of Paris. It is also the name of a very popular video series on the nightly TV news show, Le Grand Journal. La Conasse is a spoiled Parisienne the audience follows as she visits places common to a 30 something’s daily route; the playground, a bar, the gym. You wouldn’t want to be her friend. She refuses to drink from a plastic cup or take a shower before swimming at the public pool, and when she pops in to satisfy her nicotine fix she tells the tobacco seller that he is like one of Santa’s elves, but working for the Angel of Death. She berates the pharmacist for a broken scale that is adding an extra 200 grams to her weight. She is the French stereotype of a Parisienne. Terrifyingly enough, these are scenes that are inspired from real life.

Today, when an American mentions the rude French, they get shot down by a politically correct crowd of sophisticated countrymen who explain that it is the American’s fault for wearing white sneakers, speaking loudly, touching the merchandise, and horror, of horrors, not saying “Bonjour” when walking into a shop.

I am here to tell you, if a French (wo)man is rude to you, it is not necessarily your fault! While I don’t believe that Parisians are ruder than anyone else, they have their reputation for a reason and after 12 years of living here, I have developed a theory that they treat it like cheese or wine, taking something about to rot and turning it into a fine art.

The worse offenders can be the “filles de”; the wife, daughter, or remote off-spring of someone important. That someone may have died 200 years ago, but the de remains in the family name and a lot of these women are convinced that the rules apply to everyone else, just to make their own lives easier. Common rules, like speed limits, or waiting in line. I once attended Museum Night with the “fille de” of a large fortune. The line at the Rodin museum ran along the façade and wrapped around the corner, up the boul des Invalides. Mme “fille de” went up to the security guard, myself and our 5 children in tow, opened her bag for the security check, then walked right it. I followed her with the kids, in absolute shock. “But fille de,” I cried, “there’s a line!” “pffft,” she shrugged, “oui, but it is not for me. I don’t do lines.” The amazing thing is that no one stopped us. Not a soul dared utter a word. She had been so confident that everyone, myself included, had just assumed she was a vip with a special pass.

When you do try to call them on it, don’t expect an apology. Clearly, its your fault. “Mais, ce n’est pas normale!” They’ll scream at you. It’s not normal that you object when they cut in line. It’s not normal when you insist they give you the handicap seat because you are pregnant. It’s not normal that you hit their car with a very heavy bag of books, causing a minor dent because they were backing their car into your 5 year old child who is holding your hand, standing on the sidewalk in front of the Bon Marché. “It’s not normal?” you may shout back hysterically. “You are crazy!!!” he may explode, “I must get a Christmas present for my wife! I got gifts for everyone but forgot my wife. It is très urgent, and now, how am I going to explain this huge dent in my car? You are crazy.” And as you look for a little support, you may see all the waiters from the café across the street go into hiding behind the bar, hoping you don’t call on them for back up. Just because you live upstairs and come by two or three times a day does not mean they want to be bothered when your child is nearly killed. So the best you can do is scream back, “I bet you didn’t forget a gift for your mistress!”

Every one knows Parisians are perfect. They’re thin, excellent mothers, at the height of fashion and I hear they never need plastic surgery. I guess they have to be rude to keep from being absolutely perfect. Because if they were truly perfect, we’d have to hate them.

Beyond the classics in Chicago

Screen shot 2014-04-30 at 9.48.20 AMI have already lauded the wealth of art and culture in Chicago. I love this city and have yet to understand why it is known across the globe, yet so few people have actually been there on holiday. I say this without ever having visited when the weather was nice enough to enjoy the classic architectural tour along the Chicago river.

We had a special treat on this visit, being able to share a meal with Joseph the Butler. Ok, not just a meal, but crab cakes by the fire place in the cosy, wood paneled bar at Ralph Lauren on The Miracle Mile. Leave it to a butler to get you the best table in the house. Not only is it a pleasure to be with Joseph, but he shared some great local tips. Like, sending us to the Richard Grey Art Gallery on the 29th floor of the John Hancock Tower, turning me on to the insanely expensive, but eye candy-licious Ikram store/art gallery/restaurant, giving us a heads up about the regular, dependable programming at the Blue Chicago Jazz Club on Clark Street and reminding me to take Mr French to the Chagall wall. He also recommended taking the water taxi to Chinatown and cycling along the water. We didn’t get to see it all on this visit, but his ideas are at the top of my list for the next time we head west.

Screen shot 2014-04-30 at 9.47.49 AMWe felt super cool when we found ourselves in the hipstery hip Wicker Park neighborhood with its used record stores, haute couture bike bags and peanut flavored cappucinos. After not buying any albums in that part of town, Mr French went into some serious lp withdrawal, forcing us to hike through the (FREE and fantastic!!!) LIncoln Park zoo to Dave’s Records on Clark Street, where we also dove into a total dive called Frances’ that has been serving locals since 1938! When we whined that there were no desserts on the menu, the very charming girl next to us leaned over and and whispered, “Molly’s Cupcakes”, its next door. And so it was! Featuring très français inspired cakes like an eclair cup and a crème brûlée cake.

Screen shot 2014-04-30 at 9.51.34 AMThe one tour that has been on the top of my list since our first visit a year ago, is Frank Lloyd Wright’s The Robie house on the University of Chicago campus. This time we made it and I really recommend making the trip to Hyde Park for a visits. I then made a point of showing Mr French the gothic Rockefeller Memorial Chapel and the modern Mansueto Library. The library looks like a crystal Easter Egg buried in a luscious lawn, light streams into the reading reading room, enlightening the space as the books stacked below enlighten the mind. After the visit, we made a bee line for Obama’s favorite rib joint, Ribs N’ Bibs on S Dorchester.

On the morning before his flight, we took Mr French downtown to see the Chagall Wall Joseph had mentioned. Taking a Chicago classic (the downtown monumental art tour) Mr French made it an original by walking into random buildings, leading us to the reverent interior of the Chicago Tribune and the astonishing mosaics of the Marquette building.

The more we visit Chicago the longer the list becomes for our next visit; The Girl and Goat, Tru (another Joseph recommendation), and A10 in Hyde Park for restaurants, a visit to Frank Lloyd Wright’s studio in the ‘burbs, an afternoon at the beach with skyscrapers soaring above, and more spontaneous incursions into the lobbies of downtown’s architectural gems, as well as the art gallery district and the Pilsen neighborhood (and yes, those are my personal notes I am posting so it will be easy for me to look up the next time we are in Chicago, because there is sure to be a next time!)

 

 

 

 

Une Parisienne à Chicago

Screen shot 2014-04-28 at 1.26.37 PMIn 1892 French sculptor Léon Grandin was hired to design the fountains for the Chicago World’s Fair that brought us the Ferris Wheel, Juicy Fruit gum and dishwashers. Being a brave, bold woman for her time, who had probably heard rumours about that dishwashing machine, his wife insisted on joining in the adventure. Knowing this was a trip of a life time, Marie kept a journal and later wrote a book about her time in the US.

Like Parisians expats living abroad today, she had a hard time with the food, missing quality breads, cheeses and “properly” cooked vegetables. She marveled at the differences in child rearing and was enchanted with the endless possibilities available.

Having recently read her book, Une Parisienne à Paris, Madame Grandin was with me on my latest adventure to the Windy City, as I wondered at America through her eyes. I imagined how she would have been surprised to see the solo woman enjoying a glass of white wine and a casual bite at the très Parisienne counter of the Bistro Zinc or enjoyed the modern (for her times) collection of Impressionist art at the Chicago Art Institute.

More than a century divides us, and I grew up in the US, yet I can relate to the cultural shock she experienced. I freeze as I go to open the door at the Tourist office and there is an icon indicating “No Pistols Allowed”. Ordering my morning coffee, I request a small cup to a confused server who only understands terms like Venti or Grande. Once we think we have communicated she arrives with her version of small and I think there has been some kind of misunderstanding at the supersized serving.

I jump back a step as the sales man, yes MAN!!! at Victoria’s Secret asks me my name. He is so friendly Mr French thinks he may be stoned, until his other colleagues act just as chipper. The salesman at Ralph Lauren hands me the business card for his blog. Its a familiarity I’ve grown unfamiliar with.

People look quizically as I stammer and stutter, clueless as to where I should sign with the stylus at the check out counter, or swipe my card in the taxi. “But you sound like an American, aren’t you American?” They query. “Oui, mais non” is the most appropriate reply.

At restaurants, our mouths drop as we are served ginormous portions. We plow through meals, desserts loosing their appeal. And there is food everywhere, students striding by, shoveling Asian noodles into their mouths between classes. At the movie theater bags rustle, chips crunch and entire meals are devoured, a chorus of bodily functions  accompanying the film.

Discussing our dismay at screaming kids being tolerated in diners and taco joints, a friend tells us that local Alinea, one of San Pellegrino’s 10 best Restaurants in the World recently expelled two guests with their screaming baby. The restaurant was chastised by the press for discrimination against parents with young children. The concept disturbs me on so many levels, it leaves even me without the words as my mind stutters to grasp the mentality of people who bring a baby to a $1000 meal and the culture that thinks this should be a right.

At Symphony Center we are astounded when late arrivals are allowed into the theater and shown their seats while the legendary Mavis Staples sings her heart out on stage.

While digesting our shock, we were also full of wonder. Imagine, a jazz singer in a symphony hall? And the zoo is a marvelous, open space, free to all. The city is investing in environmental projects along the entire lakefront and the public art is simply stupendous. There is a can do spirit of adventure, with the sense that anything is possible that is sadly lacking in French culture.

Much like Grandin, who returned to the US to settle there permanently, I was both shocked and delighted by the lack of rules in American society today. And I realized that while I may someday return, I will never truly go home again.

Jamais deux sans trois…

Screen shot 2014-04-11 at 12.18.28 PMLast week Mr French came home from the office a bit early, too tired to continue his day. Early, for Mr French means he walked through the door just before 8pm. It had been a lovely, sunny day and I had purchased the first heirloom tomatoes of the season with a loose ball of fresh burrata. It was the perfect dinner for a tired man; light and healthy with the creamy decadence of buffalo milk. The flavors of summer in early April. What a treat! Even better, M had been particularly entertaining, keeping us laughing over the exploits of French teens. We started to settle into a very relaxing evening and I was quite please with myself that things had gone so smoothly. Before opening the pages of his book, Mr French checked his email one last time.

“Putain. This is wrong!” he jumped. “Something is wrong.” he had seen an email from our bank and it looked like we were being robbed. An hour of panic ensued, as he tried to understand exactly what was happening and how. While dealing with this fire, the phone rang. It was his daughter, La Fashionista. She was calling to inform us that she was dealing with a a fire of her own. Literally. She was calling from outside her building at Les Halles, flames soaring out of the first floor flat, extending well beyond her home on the 4th floor. She was hoping desperately her Cocker Spaniel was safe while pompiers rescued her neighbors from their homes. Once it was sure the humans were saved, a fireman took her keys and rushed three flights up the smoke filled staircase to save her puppy. Our hero!

Astonishingly, we both managed to sleep that night. La Fasionista slept, too, safe with her puppy at a friend’s. Over the next few days, we were able to recover the stolen property and La Fashionista learned her flat had only suffered smoke damage. An annoyance, but nothing more.

On Sunday, we had a family brunch to lick our wounds and on Monday, we hit the ground running, our plates full as we were both slammed with work; the days a blur of words passing before my screen as my fingers fly across the keyboard. This morning, rushing out the door to face requests that are piling up faster than can be treated, I went to the closet to grab my shoes. There was water on the closet floor. ON MY SHOES on the closet floor!!! I threw everything into the hallway and discovered it was coming from our hot water heater. I have a tendency to take a short story and make it longer. I’ll spare you this time, but right now I am a prisoner in my home, keeping an eye on the heater to make sure it and its 200 litres of water don’t sink through the floor before the plumber can arrive at 5pm.

There are three boogey men hiding in the closet of every Parisian; floods, fire and robbery. In the last seven days, Mr French and I have had a glimpse of them all. When these things happen in our lives, the same thought always goes through my head, “We’re all safe. We’re all healthy. Thank you, universe.” And I feel blessed as we deal with the bank, the plumber and the insurance companies. But I think I deserve a holiday, so I am off tomorrow morning, leaving the pink blossoms of spring time in Paris for a week in the unseasonable cold of Chicago where snow is still expected. I don’t mind. I’ll be with Mr French and my girls and thanking the universe with all my heart.

Belleville

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A few weeks ago we were at La Hune bookstore, a magical place facing the église St Germain des Près. It is two floors and an ante-room full of books. A lot of them are art books that are great in any language, or no language at all! They were opening a large cardboard box of books titled, Le Paris du Tout-Paris, which roughly translates to the Paris A-list crowd’s Paris.

Screen shot 2014-04-09 at 7.58.25 PMMr French huffed away, mumbling something about elitists. I picked up a book and started flipping through. The A-list in Paris includes TV news personalities, movie stars, art gallery owners, musicians, chefs and, of course, Inès de la Fressange. Some of the A-list are well known abroad; Sonia Rykiel, Jane Birkin, Pierre Hermé. Others are relatively unknown; the third female rabbi in France, Delphine Horvilleur or Yves Carcelle who runs the Louis Vuitton foundation.

They talk about their Paris, mention their favorite restaurants and share their shopping secrets. And guess what? More than a few of them adore hanging out at Café de Flore.

Screen shot 2014-04-09 at 7.59.00 PMScreen shot 2014-04-09 at 8.17.43 PMWhile reading I came across the Paris of Clément Dirié, a publisher in the contemporary art world, I had never heard of before. Monsieur Dirié likes to spend his Saturdays haunting art galleries. Sounds so much like my Mr French, I had to show him the page, pointing out the list of galleries in Belleville we had never explored. Mr French got so excited, he actually found where we keep the printer and learned how to make a copy. This Saturday there was no discussion, we were going to Belleville, to follow in the publisher’s footsteps.

We started out at Le Plateau at the Place Hannah Arendt, a free public art space that had some really fantastic works on display. Including a pianist who was playing partitions an artist had split, forcing her to take long pauses between brief spells of intoxicating music. Her piano had been split, too; half traditional upright, the other half ornate wood cuts.

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Then we strolled into the glorious parc aux Buttes Chaumont. The place was full with picnic-ers, birthdays parties and sun worshipers, pink cherry blossoms carpeted the paths, balloons bobbed above. At the bottom, there was some great street art by Fred Le Chevalier and Invader.

 

And there were more art galleries to explore, Jocelyn Wolff, Bugada & Cargnel, and Marcelle Alix. Some of it was interesting. Some of it was what the French call foutage de gueule, which means somebody is trying to make a fool out of you. There were car tires with brakes on sale as art for 5000€ a piece. And copper sheets stained with animal urine the artist orders on the internet.

But there was some good art, too. Screen shot 2014-04-09 at 8.17.20 PMThere was a particularly strong show at The Eyes Collection, Galerie Intervalle. We strolled along, stumbling in and out of galleries, meeting artists and listening in on a tour group of art students before finally making our way down to on of my favorite places in Paris, the rue Desnoyez, where street artists own the street. It was a llovely day I look forward to repeating at the rentrée, when the galleries will be putting on their very best.

Made in France

Screen shot 2014-04-03 at 2.19.00 PMThere was recently a documentary on local tv following a 20 something journalist as he lived for 9 months using only things made in France. I did not watch the show, but I saw interviews on tv and read up on his adventure quite a bit. He had to do without a fridge, his phone died and couldn’t be replaced, an affordable car was not an option and he had to take a loan out to live like this for just nine months. He gains 5kg because a quick Made in France snack at home would mean bread and cheese, outside the home… McDonald’s!!!

HisScreen shot 2014-04-03 at 2.19.39 PM quest is not new. Last year over the holidays I gave you uniquely Parisian gift ideas, on a quest for something with a little more personality than mass produced goods from Asia. Like the journalist’s phone, being made in France does not ensure better quality. But there is some fantastic design out there an I ran across a few places while out exploring this weekend.

Screen shot 2014-04-03 at 2.18.29 PMIt was the rooster in the window that caught my eye at Gab & Jo. Everything else pulled me in and kept me there. I found a lovely silk cotton nightie set (100€) was tempted by the antique phone lamp (1500€) and couldn’t resist the CHAT-nel tote bag (22€) for La Fashionista. This weekend I’m going back for the blue, white red security belt that keeps thieves from stealing a purse from a bike basket (30€).

I found Gab&Jo while running to the pharmacist, A Zagorski at 6 rue Jacob where I had recently discovered their house made shampoos and conditioners (9€). Screen shot 2014-04-03 at 2.19.22 PMI loved the new products so much I wanted to learn more, but they couldn’t tell me much, because they were afraid it would be considered advertising and it is illegal for pharmacies to advertise in France. Which means this is my new best kept secret. There are bath gels, hand creams and tonic lotions, too, with options a variety of special needs. My favorite fragrances are honeysuckle and verbena. So far, they’ve been great on my hair and I love keeping it local!

Screen shot 2014-04-03 at 2.39.52 PMFinally on my journey, I passed by the Maeght Foundation on the rue du Bac. They have a collection of fairy tales illustrated by world class artists who use graphic symbols to tell their tale (42€). The books are abound like accordians, as enchanting to touch as they are to read. In my Fable of Fortune, the blue dot represents fortune, the brown curve a horse and the black lines a rich man and his wife.

As I write this it is not lost on me that I a quoting 9€ for a shampoo, 42€ for a book. Producing anything in France is costly, but when you buy Made in France you’re getting original pieces you’d be hard pressed to find elsewhere and everything on this list, at least, offers high quality to go along with the hefty price tag, sometimes make it worth the purchase, but always worth dropping by to decide for yourself.

 

A Monet moment

Screen shot 2014-04-02 at 9.16.28 AMThe Tuesday after returning from Marseille I had a very important visit at the Orangerie… What’s that you say? The Orangerie is closed Tuesdays? Well, yes, it is, which is why this visit was so important. Organized by the American Friends of the Musée d’Orsay, this was a Patron’s Pass tour with the museum’s new director, Laurence des Cars, who has become something of a celebrity since taking over the role in January.

Screen shot 2014-04-02 at 9.16.20 AMBefore coming to the Orangerie, Laurence des Cars was at the Louvre, and a key member of the team helping the Louvre Abu Dhbai build their collection. Think about it. You are so passionate about art, you’ve made a career of it and one day you get a phone call asking you to help build a museum’s collection. From scratch, with a pretty generous budget. Reading reports and listening to interviews, its clear that is was the adventure of a life time, but not an easy one. A lot of careers took unexpected turns, with Laurence des Cars now finding herself at the Orangerie.

I felt incredibly lucky to be part of this tour and had been looking forward to it throughout my trip in the south, the abundant flowers a constant reminder of the visit to come. But I never suspected, how very special it is to visit a museum when it is closed to the public. There were security guards, and workers getting the space ready for the next show, but all this activity just made the experience more intimate, as we got to know this remarkable space as very few ever have to opportunity.

Screen shot 2014-04-02 at 9.16.04 AMLaurence, I hope I may call her Laurence, Madame sounds much too formal in English, gave us the history of Monet’s famous Waterlily paintings, explaining that this had been his gift to the country in response to the apocalyptic WWI. He wanted to create a quiet, beautiful place people could go to meditate. Laurence shared her amazement at just how quiet tourists get as they respond to the magic that is created by the display of the masterpieces in two, large oval rooms full of color and diffused light.

I am not a great fan of impressionist art, but like the tourists, this space has always had a tremendous effect on me. The colors seem to vibrate off of the walls, echoing a nearly tangible energy, a sense of calming caressing my body. On this visit, I got to experience the sensation in an entirely new way. Busy taking photos, I lagged behind our small group, and found myself alone in one of the rooms. All that light, color and energy, uninterrupted. It was astounding. I stood there, living a moment of true awe.

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Eventually, I pulled myself away and ran to catch up with the group and hear about Laurence’s plans for the permanent Jean Walter and Paul Guillaume collection downstairs. She is a dynamic, optimistic curator, who sees a big future for this space, and her enthusiasm was contagious, making us all want to help her in this journey of bringing this museum to life.

This extraordinary visit was not a unique, one of a kind day for a handful of journalists. It was an event organized by the American Friends of the Musée d’Orsay for their members and anyone who had signed up via their website. Their goal is to help both the d’Orsay and Orangerie enrich the collections they have today, contributing to restoration projects and new acquisitions. Members are mostly Americans who live in the US, but are thrilled to support the arts while becoming Paris insiders. Going on a 35€ Patron Pass tour is just the beginning. You can become a member of the AFMO and get invitations to their events throughout the year, or attend a gala and contribute even more, as you spend a magical evening with others who are passionate about art.

This is the link to upcoming AFMO events

And a link to membership information & benefits

les Berges…

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Last week was a blockbuster for the art world with the Salon du Dessin, Contemporary Drawing show, Paris+Art Design and Art Paris Fair. After three evenings of appreciating everything from European Masterpieces to a 2 headed calf, yesterday I was ready for a break. After a little poulet roti from the butcher downstairs, Mr French and I sat in the living room like Disney crows.

 

Screen shot 2014-03-31 at 9.05.24 AM“Whaddya wanna do?” “I don’t know, whaddya wanna do?” “I don know…”

The weather was very much like in LA, lots of sunlight trying to shine through a dangerous level of smog, calling us outside for a balade. “Les Berges, I want to go to the Berges and check out what that street artist was doing by the bridge.”

So much for being art-ed out. Les Berges is a rather generic concept. In theory, just a nice place to stroll along the Seine. When I tell visitors to head there, they ask me what there is to do. The easy answer is to check it out on the official website. But even then, its not always clear, so here is what we saw going on yesterday, for a bit of inspiration…

Screen shot 2014-03-31 at 9.05.49 AM Screen shot 2014-03-31 at 9.04.11 AMAll the inspiration from the week had me trying to create a bit of art for myself, as I stood under a bridge completely fascinated by the play of color and light. The street artist Baudelocque was creating some tremendous art, inspired by the rhino in front of the Musée d’Orsay just above. There was more street art, all of it sponsored by Les Berges, and then there are the street performers, two elegant gentlemen in their French sailor tops roller blading with a 1930’s flapper to Georges Brassens and Edith Piaf.

Boot camp was in session all along the way with very buff men shouting at troops of athletes, having them drop and give ’em 10, 20, then more. Kids climbing the walls (literally), and group having a blast as they threw swings at one another for a boxing class they had signed up for online. All the activities are free for the lucky few who think of signing up before the classes fill up. Screen shot 2014-03-31 at 9.05.36 AM Screen shot 2014-03-31 at 9.03.47 AM

There are cyclists, runners and skate boarders weaving their way through people out walking their kids, their pets and even, their toy trains! In the shadow of the Pont Alexandre III there are a couple of cafés that disappear every winter and have just returned this weekend. One of them looks like they have invested in a steam boat they will be turning into a restaurant that could welcome diners rain, or shine… Whenever there are two cafés, Parisians tend to pick a favorite. Are you a Deux Magots gal or a Flore fan? We develop this illogical loyalty to one or the other and stick with it, even if its a little nuts. On the Berges there is Le Faust or en attendant Rosa. En attendant Rosa is by far the more popular option, so I love Le Faust, despite the horrid service, and the unreliable stock. Yesterday they were out of beer. And lemon syrup and anything edible. But as I sat there on my classic bistro chair, savoring he seafront table, I could not have cared less. I was in Paris, with Mr French and it was simply gorgeous. Which is when the man with his train walked by. I mean, really, does it get any better than that?

 

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